


Frost on Tarnished Silver

by Siriusfanatic



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, book-verse, movie-verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusfanatic/pseuds/Siriusfanatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter comes with a vengeance in the wake of a bloody battle, devastating the battle-scarred survivors of the Battle of Five Armies, stranding many and cutting off trade and supplies between the three remaining factions.  While the heirs of Durin lay clinging to life in the halls of Erebor, the world around them lies unsettled, resting in the eye before the storm. A new obsession fills the hearts of Men, Elves, and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills; the missing Arkenstone.<br/>The fate of this stone lies in the hands of Bilbo Baggins, who cares not for gold or power, but only for the King lain stricken by his numerous battle wounds before him. Bilbo strives to keep hope alive while waiting for the recovery of Thorin and his nephews Fili and Kili, but his heart remains torn by Thorin's cruel words to him before the battle. Even if Thorin lives, Bilbo does not truly know if the riff between them can be healed. But love endures in the face of many oppositions. Can it endure the madness of the Dwarf Lord's curse, the grief and fear of an Elven King, and the greed of spiteful men?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an obvious AU that pulls from both movie and book adaptations, considering the second and third films of the Hobbit have not been released yet.  
> For those of you who have not read the book, this is going to be massively confusing so I suggest you at least read a wiki entry or something as this all takes place after the final battle in the novel.
> 
> This is also one of those happier "everyone lives!" stories, though it is not without it's share of drama and strife. 
> 
> I am the kind of writer who likes to throw people into the middle of something and deal with the back story as I go, so if certain plot points and situations seem out of the blue initially, trust that they will be dealt with and explained in due time. This primarily focuses upon the relationship of Legolas and Kili, but I PROMISE all will be explained.
> 
> Also, if you are hoping for "Durincest" here, you will not find it. Fili and Kili have epic bromance, but that's all, no romantic or sexual situations between the two of them ever occur. 
> 
> If you are confused who "Dain" is, he is not an original character, he appears in the Hobbit and if you need further info, please visit the Lord of the Rings wiki. 
> 
> Now that that's cleared up, read on!

The air was rank with death. Ripe still with the smell of rot and decay, the metallic notes of blood and cloven steel, and the ever lingering smoke of camp fires lit day and night, to aid in the recovery of the dead and dying, and of course the disposal of their remains. The sun had not shone over the crest of the Lonely Mountain in nearly three days, for heavy snow clouds hung low over its peak, met by man-made plumes of ash and smoke.  
Bilbo would not leave the inner halls, and ventured rarely to any of the balconies and parapets that looked out over the great front gate. He had seen enough devastation to last him a life time and more, and no hope of seeing a glimmer of sunlight could entice him to look out over the scarred battlefield. Winter had moved in with a vengeance and that morning as he made his way to his usual destination, he noticed the marked smell of snow on the air, and heard the howling of the wind as it came down over the mountainside. The glimpses of the sentries he caught showed that they were dressed in heavy furs, which ruffled in the wind, and even within the cloistered halls there was an undeniable chill in the air.  
He mumbled to himself that he should bring more blankets, but before he could put this thought to his feet; which were still tender, bloody and bruised from the battle days before, he had reached the oft visited doorway. It’s wide, high arch indicated the grandeur befitting of royalty, and indeed below its wide arches it held just that. The bedchamber was located at the very back of the room, which could have comfortably housed three or four occupants. Currently it held three, but these were asleep.  
On the most comfortable mats that could be found, Kili and Fili were lain, bandaged and bloodied and looked over by their fellow kin hourly. As Bilbo entered, he was greeted by the gaze of Dwalin, one of their original fifteen. The tallest Dwarf looked at him with the world-weary tired eyes of a warrior who had grown tired of the fight, and whom was now left the with hard earned spoils of victory and most of all its waste and losses. He was at Kili’s bedside, one large hand grasped over the youngest Dwarf’s limp and bloody one. The Halfling could hardly hold his gaze over young Kili, who had received so many terrible wounds in the battle, defending his uncle. That he lived at all was nothing short of a miracle, but his continued survival was not guaranteed. The young, dark-haired Dwarf’s breathing was a raspy rattle that escaped his chapped lips with effort, and whatever small movements his unconscious body made seemed to be spasmodic and painful. He had taken two arrows to the torso, and deep sword wound to the stomach and his left leg had been broken in several spots; which were all set and bound by Dwalin himself.  
“Can I get you anything?” Bilbo asked, voice just barely above a whisper as he leaned at the larger Dwarf’s shoulder. The old warrior patted his back with his rough palmed hand and gave him a little shake, “Are you a burglar or a nursemaid? Your many talents never cease to amaze us all. I need nothing but your presence here, Mr, Baggins, to lift my weary spirits.”  
Bilbo nodded and gave him a pale smile. There did not seem to be many pleasantries left within him, whatever warmth of love or companionship he felt towards these Dwarves. He was tired in body and spirit, but he kept on while he was needed. What else could he do? He turned his eyes towards Fili’s bed, which was kept close to his brother’s. The young heir looked more peaceful than his brother, though his long blonde hair and beard were a matted mane of blood and dirt, and the deep wound that was over his left eye seemed unlikely to ever fully heal. Bilbo did not know the Dwarf that was washing his wounds, and he gave no note of him. He removed from the top of the bundle he had been holding and produced two clean, heavy blankets and placed them at the foot of the beds before turning and continuing towards the alcove which contained the King’s bedchamber. Here, Bilbo had spent much of the last three days.  
It had been widely believed that Thorin was upon his death bed. The tragedy and irony of that was lost on no one; the long sought King Under the Mountain to have striven for so long to reclaim his kingdom, doomed to hold it in his possession for such a short and terrible time; his throne room now a tomb.  
Bilbo approached the fur-laden dark-haired mass which lay among the blankets and sheets, making the mighty Lord look small and frail somehow in the depths. Bilbo sat upon the edge of the bed and unburdened himself; laying out fresh clothing, bandages, a water flask and wash basin on the beside table. Thorin did not stir at his quick and quiet movements. He had been unconscious since Beron had brought him in from the field three days ago, and had not stirred much except to moan or bellow in pain since.  
The Hobbit washed the drying blood from the wound’s dwarf’s face, inspecting each gouge and scrape for signs of healing or infection. He combed and braided the man’s thick black hair and beard in customary fashion, and studied the faint twitch of his eyes beneath their closed lids. He changed his dressings and bed clothes and replaced the blood soiled and sweat stale sheets with clean ones, He did all this without a word, but hummed quietly to himself songs of the Shire and his boyhood, trying to fill the empty silence in the air that was punctuated only by a faint footfall or a moan or wail in the distance.  
He did not hear the soft-footed approach of the wizard, and his tattered robes which slid upon the stone floor or the faint thud of his staff. He paid no mind to Gandalf at all in fact, for he was far too fixated on the words of his song, for his memory was failing him. Failing him and allowing all the tears that he had kept at bay for these long days and nights to bubble too close to the surface. He sniffled loudly and cursed, dabbing his eyes on his sleeve.  
“Bother!” he muttered bitterly, spiting the word like bile, “I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten the bloody words. Are you happy?” he snapped, turning at last to look upon the face of his friend. Gandalf looked down at him from beneath the hood of his bushy brow, and his blue eyes were warm but sad as they gazed at the Hobbit.  
“No, I am not.” He answered softly and simply. He offered an arm, which he put around Bilbo’s shoulders and allowed the Halfling to press his face against his middle to hide the tears he could no longer hold back. The wizard felt him shake and tremble with the urgency and intensity of those hidden sobs and stroked his hand across his back to sooth him. “These tears shall pass, my friend, as do all unhappy times. We weep when and for whom we must. But your tears are not in vain.”  
Bilbo sniffled loudly again and reached for the handkerchief within his breast pocket. Bofur had given him several dozen when they had come to Erebor, in that brief and happy moment when Smaug was extinguished and the threat of war had not yet come to them.  
“How fares our King?” Gandalf asked then, looking to Thorin’s sleeping face. Bilbo blew his nose loudly several times and discarded the cloth in a basket next to the bed for soiled things before dabbing his eyes on his sleeve again. “Resting well enough, but there’s been no change. If he goes on much longer like this I fear he’ll starve.”  
Gandalf did not hide the small smile that came to his lips at Bilbo’s concern, for it comforted him that some things never really do change; and that Bilbo was just as concerned about his friends being well nourished and comfortable as he always had been. The grey wizard placed his hand upon Thorin’s bandaged head and felt the warmth and breath of him, and the pale but far from extinguished flame of life that filled his battered body. He knew well that Thorin should not have survived his ordeal, that death should have reached him by now. Yet it seemed fate had taken a hand in things again, and for what he hoped was a happier end than might have been.  
“He is strong. Stronger than even I had guessed. He will not pass into the shadow willingly, our Thorin.” He looked to Bilbo again, “For that, he has you to thank.”  
Bilbo allowed a small scoffing cough to escape his throat as he busied himself with rinsing the bloody bandages. “I highly doubt he will agree with you.”  
“He loves you, Bilbo.”  
The words gave the Hobbit pause, even seemed to inflict a stab of pain unto his being. “I thought as much once. But I was wrong.”  
The wizard settled his large frame down beside the bed and the Hobbit with a creak of aged oak and even more aged bones. He took a deep drag of his pipe and exhaled a large lofty smoke ring that perfumed the air with the scent of Old Toby, and filled Bilbo with memories and longing of warm summer days and his soft chair, and his beautiful garden; all things nearly forgotten to him now. “Gold sickness is a weakness shared among many,” the bearded man began, “. Great wealth has afforded many great power; but never has it afforded anyone great happiness. Thorin’s line has been victim of this spell before, and for some, it is the harbinger of death to all they truly cherish. I believe you, Bilbo, are the source of his happiness.” But these words did not comfort Bilbo, and in his bitter sadness and frustration, he angrily overturned the wash basin. The Hobb it cursed under his breath and bent to wipe up the spill and refill the basin.  
Gandalf gave another thoughtful pause and let the Halfling have his anger for the moment; it was deserved. “Thorin’s words to you before the battle were not his own. You know this.”  
“And what makes you so sure of that?” the Hobbit gruffed, finding this topic to be most unpleasant and deeply upsetting. “Is it so common for Dwarves to accuse those they care for of cowardice? Thievery? Conspiracy? Blatant betrayal? Or is that another custom that poor stupid little Bilbo simply can’t comprehend?”  
Tears were close in his eyes again and Gandalf put a hand to his cheek and drew him close, keeping his fingers curled lightly but firmly around the Hobbit’s nape. “Forgiveness, Bilbo, is the only custom which you need to concern yourself with now. Forgive Thorin and the others. Forgive yourself.”  
Bilbo’s mouth twisted into an angry, trembling frown, his brow furrowed and his eyes shut themselves tightly as they might; all an attempt to hold back what came rushing up from his chest and into the back of his throat. But a sob escaped all the same, and it was a loud, dry, pitiful sound that echoed in the high walled chambers. “I did betray him! I let him go out there alone! I wasn’t beside him—I am a coward!”  
“Shh, shhh.” Gandalf rested his head against the sobbing Hobbit’s for a moment, and allowed Bilbo his tears. “Old friend; you had to courage to denounce a futile war. Yours was not cowardice, Bilbo, it was wisdom. And Thorin will see that, before the end.”  
Bilbo nodded, but he felt no comfort in his heart at the wise man’s words. He eventually he composed himself, tossing another of Bofur’s handkerchief’s into the bin and taking a moment to wash his own face in the basin before speaking again. “Will Fili and Kili live?”  
Gandalf was slow to answer and this made Bilbo’s already knotted stomach twist further; “I do not believe that the line of Durin will end here, if that is your meaning. But even I cannot see all ends. All we can do now is wait.”  
The Hobbit nodded, his matted curls bobbing slightly on his head. He sat beside Thorin and allowed himself to rest upon his hand, which grew warm in the Hobbit’s palm. “All is forgiven, all is forgotten. Just come back to me.”

 

The hush that fell over the room was soon interrupted. The heavy boot falls alerted Gandalf to a new presence, one which he was not well acquainted with. Bilbo lifted his weary head from the bed as well, looking out curiously through the alcove’s partially obscured entrance as Gandalf pulled aside the curtains. Dwalin and the other dwarf attending to Fili had risen from their seats and greeted the newcomer with great gestures of respect, and the other dwarf did the same.  
This was Dain Ironfoot, lord of the Dwarves of the Iron Hills and cousin to Thorin Oakenshield. He was large and broad, with a great beard the color of dusted coal, and eyes as sharp as an eagle’s. Dain had come at last to the Lonely Mountain to give much needed aid to Thorin and Company, though initially he had rebuked his cousin’s request to join him in the reclaiming of Erebor. But once the task had been done, once Thorin had managed what was believed to be impossible, the elder Dwarf could not refuse him again. Were it not for Dain, the Dwarves of Erebor would have certainly perished in the Battle of Five Armies; standing just thirteen against thousands.  
“Lord Dain,” Gandalf greeted as he hobbled towards the Dwarf, leaning more heavily upon his staff than need be as though to signal some sign of frailty or submission. Bilbo did not understand this, for he had seen and heard little of Dain, but understood that Gandalf was trying to keep things as cordial and respectful as possible.  
Dain looked upon the old wizard with no small amount of scrutiny, muddled with a healthy dose of respect for those far more knowing and powerful than he. “Wizard,” the Dwarf Lord replied with a small nod of his great bushy head. “How fares my cousin, Thorin?”  
“Why don’t you inquire of his keeper?” Gandalf asked pleasantly, gesturing towards Bilbo, who stood behind him, still partially hidden by the great bed curtains. Dain squinted at him, as if surprised to see him standing there then, and Bilbo reluctantly presented himself, swallowing unsteadily.  
“He’s---“  
“And who are you?”  
Bilbo’s eyes widened as he suddenly realized they had not been properly introduced, and he remembered himself with a flush of embarrassment and bowed, “I am Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, burglar to Thorin and Company.”  
“And friend,” Dwalin interjected from behind as he came lumbering up behind the group. “T’was Mr. Baggins here that so cleverly found his way inside the secret door and faced the devil Smaug all on his own. He has saved us from many perils along our long a weary journey, and Thorin held him in the highest confidence.”  
“Is that so?” Dain asked skeptically. “I did not see him upon the battlefield.” He looked down his large bulbous nose at Bilbo, “though it is any wonder anyone could see him at all.”  
Bilbo looked torn, unsure of how to take the Dwarf Lord’s words. Instead, he answered his initial question; “There has been no change. The King remains unconscious, but his wounds are closing and there has been no sign of infection.”  
“Well, that is something then.” Dain said with a curt nod, and moved past the Halfling with a sweep of his heavy robes. He approached Thorin’s bedside and looked over the wounded King with an unreadable gaze. He placed his hand upon the stricken man’s chest; “My poor cousin. Long has your life been vexed by this mountain and it’s legacy. I regret that its ill will has at last taken claim of you, as it had your father and father before. But your suffering is nearly at an end.”  
“No it isn’t!” Bilbo found himself blurting out, much to his embarrassment as the whole of the company turned to look at him then. “That is to say, he’s not dying! And you shouldn’t treat him as such. I told you, his wounds are healing.”  
Dain glowered down at him and Bilbo wilted under his long, weathered stare. Dwalin came beside the Hobbit and put his broad hands on his shoulder to bolster and reassure him. “He is no King here, pay him no mind.” He muttered.  
Dain was not a dishonorable Dwarf and his love for Thorin and his kin were true, for all Dwarves consider scarred the bond of family and blood. But something had begun to change in him. Life in the Iron Hills was prosperous but hard, and it had been a long and weary battle to establish his people there. These hardships had made him calloused him against the world; dimmed his smile and buried his empathy deep beneath the surface. Perhaps now, in the wake of such heavy losses and the predicted passing of the last members of the direct line of Durin, his instincts were to only to preserve and survive, rather than to expend his energies on dim hope and possibility.  
“You would be wise to heed Mr. Baggin’s words,” Gandalf spoke then, “the line of Durin is an enduring one.” The wizard’s words were quiet and sincere, a mere shadow of their true depth and meaning. Dain looked at him again and his heavily wrinkle brow furrowed deeper; “For your aid and council I thank you, Gandalf the Grey. But these battles have passed; and so I feel, has our need of you and the Halfling.” These words stunned Bilbo and Dwalin, but seemed to barely send a ripple over Gandalf’s surface. His eyes were searching Dain’s for something unspoken and unseen, and as the Dwarf looked away and turned his attentions again to Thorin, he noticed that the old Dwarf was carefully studying the King’s hands.  
“Return to your homes, for I am sure you are sorely missed.” He looked to Bilbo then and spoke with a softened tone of sincerity; “These stone halls, full of horror and death, are no place for a kindly child of the West. Go home, little one. Your time amongst us is done.”

There was a commotion at the door then that attracted their attention. A tall shadow seemed to be arguing with one of the watchers at the door, and finally stepped past him. His tall, lithe form was unmistakable to all as he fully entered the room. A wood elf stood among the Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills. This was Prince Legolas, of the woodland realm of Mirkwood, son of the Elven King Thrandruil.  
As the tall flaxen haired Elf’s eyes briefly swept the room, taking in its occupants and its height and depth and any means of escape he might need, but they fell and rested upon the stricken dark haired dwarf upon the bed nearest him. His movements were quick and graceful as he knelt at Kili’s side, wrapping his arms around the youngest dwarf’s broken body and bringing his face close to his as he spoke hurriedly and quietly in Elvish to him.  
“What is this?” Dain balked, “An Elf son of Mirkwood in the King’s bedchambers?!” Gandalf stayed him with a wave of his hand, and it was Bilbo who approached the Elf. “Legolas?”  
The blonde pulled his gaze from Kili with some effort to gaze upon the concerned face of Bilbo Baggins. A smile crossed his features and he reached out to touch the Hobbit on the arm in a sign of friendship. “I am gladdened to see you, my friend, I had feared you would be lost in battle.” He said, but his voice was weak with a swelling of an emotion, something the sheltered Prince was not accustomed to. “What has befallen my beloved?”  
“Wounded, defending his uncle and brother from the Orc leader.” Bilbo explained calmly and quietly, “It’s very serious, I’m afraid.” He made himself look upon Kili’s sweat dotted and slack face then for the first time and days and his heart felt a fresh pang of pain, remembering the smile that had always been there and the brightness of his eyes. Legolas kissed Kili’s lips and cheeks and knotted his long fingers in the dwarf’s dark hair. “I’ve come at last, love. Forgive me for making you wait.”  
“What is your business here?” Dain demanded as he approached the Elf. Legolas did not heed him at first, and his response became unnecessary when the Dwarf he was speaking to in the corridor made himself known; “He has come to be with young Kili,” Balin spoke, hands behind his back and his head high, eyes meeting Dain’s straight on with an expression that dared him to revoke him. “They are lovers.”  
Dain made a face of disgust and visibly bristled, as did several other Dwarves of his clan that had gathered close in hopes to better hear the commotion that was taking place within the royal chambers. “This is unspeakable,” the old Dwarf muttered, and Balin bellied up to him, as if challenging him to speak further. Dwalin beamed at his brother, so often reserved, for he loved the fire he saw in his eyes then; “Then hold your tongue. These affairs are our own, and none of yours, Dain Ironfoot. The time has come for hate and suspicion to cease within these halls; have they not caused enough grief to last generations? Let it be.”  
And Bilbo smiled at the snowy bearded Dwarf, for Balin himself had had misgiving of his and Thorin’s relationship in the beginning. All the more reason to believe hearts can change.  
“You cannot claim to tell me that this--‘affair’—is all that brings him here.” Dain muttered, gesturing towards Legolas. “He must have some demand from the Elven King.”  
“King Thrandruil is my father,” Legolas spoke then to the Dwarf Lord, “I am his son, Legolas Greenleaf. But my errand here is my own. My father knows nothing of my whereabouts here. We gather our dead and make preparations to leave this waste. I searched for Kili, and my friends,” he nodded to Bilbo and the others, “for days without success. When I did not find him among the fallen, my only recourse was to come here and see for myself whether or not he had survived.” He turned and kissed Kili’s bandaged and bloodied hands. “I am relieved that my fears were unfounded.”  
“Perhaps not entirely.”  
“For Durin’s sake, Dain!” Dwalin snarled then, and this caused several of Dain’s men to bristle for they would never speak such a way to their ruler and master and disliked the idea of their distant kin taking such liberty, especially to defend an Elf.  
Of all the miraculous things then, Kili spoke; “It hurts. Please, the noise hurts.”  
“Kili!”  
They all rushed him at once, but Gandalf swatted them back, “Give the lad some air, you fools!” he hissed, though he towered above them all and could look easily over their shoulders. Legolas held Kili close and waited for the warrior’s clouded eyes to gain focus and reckoning. When they fell upon the Elf’s fair face, Kili smiled; “You are here! Wherever here is…”  
“You are safe in the halls of Eerbor, lad,” Balin replied.  
“My brother? Where is Fili?”  
Legolas helped him turn so that he might look upon Fili lying beside him. Kili’s eyes widened and his heart raced, sending blood rushing through his ears. “Fili!” the cry wrenched itself from his dry throat and he groped for his brother’s limp hand, with his own bruised and bloodied fingers.  
“Fili will be alright,” Balin assured, “Don’t excite yourself.” Kili did not head these wise words of course, for his sudden consciousness and memories brought him a rush of adrenaline and new pains he had not yet experienced, coupled with fears and terrors so that reality was difficult to distinguish from his dreams. “And uncle, where is he? Where is Thorin? Does he live?”  
“Yes,” Balin answered again. “You saved him, Kili. You and your brother.”  
At this Kili’s eyes filled with tears and he let out a sob as Legolas held him closer, rubbing his hands along his back to sooth and comfort him. The sobs came heavily and without end for a time, for they were of relief. Bilbo found himself tearing up again as well, and continued to irritably dab his eyes on his shirt sleeve.  
“There’s our boys!” Dawlin grinned, his loud gruff voice ringing with a renewed sense of hope and relief. “No mere Goblin hoard will hold sway over the line of Durin this day! Let them all rot in their caves!” It seemed to move all those in the room, breathing new hope to them, all but Dain, who remained silent and observing.  
“Come on lad, let’s get you up and into a proper bed where you’ll be more comfortable.” Balin offered then, but Kili resisted. “No, I want to stay here. Fili needs me.”  
“He’s not come around yet, boy.”  
“When he does, I will be here.” He looked then to Legolas, his head resting on the man’s shoulder as he gazed up into his face, “Will you stay here with me?”  
“Of course.” With that promise, Kili smiled again and closed his eyes, for he had grown pained and exhausted again, but the warmth of the Elf’s body close to his eased him into a peaceful sleep. Legolas was not an innate healer, but as a High Elf, he possessed such qualities that would ease the pain and sickness in a body, and thus he resolved to stay as close to the Dwarf as possible. It was Balin then who spoke to the Prince, “How is it you found your way here, your majesty? The Front Gate is not exactly open wide, and there are many dangerous still.”  
Legolas smiled at the wizened dwarf, “You underestimate me, friend. Snow and ice, rock and stone cannot deter an Wood Elf once something he desires is in his sights.”  
“For once, that heartens me, good prince.”

Bilbo wandered away from the busy scene and back to Thorin’s bed, resting himself there beside him as he had for the last few days. He held the King’s hand; “They’re going to be alright now,” he told the dwarf upon the bed. “so you must hang on, if only for their sake. They fought too hard for you just to abandon them now. So please…please,” he laid his head down upon his lover’s chest and sighed heavily. “I will wait for you here. I will keep watch. You don’t deserve it, you stubborn, stupid ass, but I will all the same.” He twined his fingers with Thorin’s and felt himself drifting off, his body growing warm and heavy. As he fell asleep, his tired mind came to realize vaguely that something was missing from the King’s hand. His ring, the one worn by his father and grandfather before, was gone. Bilbo wondered sleepily if he had misplaced it when he had been washing him, but the thought fizzled from his mind as his weary and blood shot eyes closed and he fell asleep.

****


	2. Shadows Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sealed within the snowy peeks of the Mountain, Bilbo and others can only wait out the inevitable, all their prayers pinned on the survival of Thorin and his nephews. An old familiar shadow swells in the darkness, and begins to overcome the mind Dain.

****

 

The peak of the Lonely Mountain seemed to grow as snow fell heavy upon it, and soon it was barely visible through the blinding hail of frozen white. Even the fires below became invisible as the winter storm beat its frozen furry down upon the water and the town below.  
Long Lake became a frosted landscape of ice, impassable now by boat. All recovery efforts had been given up, and the survivors of the battle retreated into what was left of their charred huts and homes to wait out the freeze.  
Only the Elves that lingered, taking shelter in the edges of the woods at the foothill of the mountain, seemed less daunted by the storm. But their lingering was a perplexing sight. Neither the men nor the Dwarf sentries could quite calculate their purpose, for they had little to say to anyone who asked, only that they were still making preparations for departure, and that the storm had disabled the use of their boats. While this made sense, it hardly seemed a true hindrance, as Elves could travel in such harsh weather on foot without fear of freezing or death, and even their horses possessed certain immunity to the elements.  
Rumors began to circulate among the spies and the lookouts that the Elven King had lost something precious to him, or that he was rallying to attack Erebor in its weakened state and claim the gold that he still coveted. But what Thrandruil sought was something much more valuable to him than whatever share of Smaug’s hoard he felt entitled to.

 

Legolas sat upon a pillow near Kili’s bed, his long blue gaze staring into the intricate carvings of the rock that towered and swelled high above his head in the cavernous depths of the Lonely Mountain. He sang softly and evenly in Elvish to his lover, who was resting soundly and easily for a change, on the far side of the pain that had filled him for three days and nights. Kili’s sudden and notable improvement had encouraged the Dwarves and given them some glimmer of hope that this long journey had not ended in vain.  
Few stirred in the darkness and Legolas’s voice carried through the halls, light and almost eerie in the cavernous halls. There were none now alive who could remember a time when the songs of Elves had been sung in Erebor.  
His song was interrupted by the scuffling sound of bare feet on stone, and he looked up to see Bilbo Baggins, wrapped in a blanket around his shivering shoulders, approaching him with a tankard of something steaming and sweet smelling. “Oh, forgive me,” the Shireling apologized, looking up to catch the Prince’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your song. It was beautiful, though I confess I didn’t understand much of it.”  
Legolas smiled at him, “It’s of little importance, Bilbo. I was simply passing the time.” The Hobbit handed him the tankard, which appeared to be some concoction of hot cider and ale. “To ward off the chill?”  
Bilbo nodded and shivered again, and Legolas handed him back the tankard. “You need it more than I, little one.”  
“Thank you,” Bilbo mumbled before taking a hefty gulp of it. It burned his tongue but it was worth it to feel the warmth fill his stomach and tingle down to his toes. “How is Kili?”  
“Better I think,” the elf answered, delicately adjusting some of the young dwarf’s misplaced hair. “The pain seems to have lessened and I rubbed the sword wounds with salve. They’ll close more fully now.” He looked the dwarf sleeping in the next bed. “I looked after Fili as well, though if anyone asks, especially that Dwalin fellow, I had no part in it. He seems very protective of the two.”  
“We all are in a way,” Bilbo answered. “They’re like children, strange as it is. They are both older than I by a good forty years, and yet they are so young and know so little about the world.” He took another drink. “Well, perhaps no less than I.”  
“I think that you are wiser than you know,” He answered, “Without your wit, your friends might never have survived my forest of Mirkwood and its treacherous beasts, much less have had the cunning to escape from my father’s dungeons.”  
Bilbo blushed a little, for this had been an accomplishment he was not all together proud of, though it hind sight it was a spot of brilliance to have them escape in the empty wine barrels.  
“Yes, well, I cannot take full credit for that little venture. Had young Kili not held your attention so firmly, or had there not been such heady wine available, all my plans might have been for naught.”  
It was Legolas’s turn to blush with embarrassment then, for he remembered all too well that hazy night of wine and kisses in the dark and the mocking laughter of friends the next day, and his own confused feelings when he realized that Kili had escaped that drove him to follow the party to Lake Town.  
“I don’t know which of us was more surprised to see the other again.” He kissed Kili’s cheek and the Dwarf smiled in his sleep and leaned a little further into his pillow as though it were the elf’s arms. Then Legolas grew serious once more, “Has there been any change?” his eyes turning towards Thorin’s bedchamber.  
Bilbo stared into his drink, shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world were on them. “Nothing.” He answered dryly. The elf wrapped the blanket a little closer around his chilled shoulders and placed a kiss on the Hobbit’s forehead. “Go and rest. When you wake, he may just surprise you.”

While the two outsiders spoke in warm hushed tones, and pair of eyes watched them from the depths of the darkness. Dain, whom had taken to patrolling the halls and searching corridors in the late of the nights, his heart and mind restless, felt ill at ease watching the pair speak. What business had the likes of Elves and Hobbits in these halls? What could they understand of these affairs, of their history and their trials?  
The Dwarf Lord tried to reason with himself that his animosity towards them was unfounded and bred by strife and fear. After all, many among the dead were his own kin, who had come under no obligation of their own to Thorin in his hour of need. Dain was no stranger to the loss of brave men, but this battle had taken a toll on him that he had not expected.   
Something like a darkness grew in his mind and his heart in these days spent in the long forgotten halls of their lost kingdom. How beautiful it was; it’s history and intricacy. How skilled the craftsmen and miners of his forefathers who had shed blood and tears to create it. What would become of it now? Would it fall back into the hands of those who were underserving, whom had fallen from grace and mixed and muddied their blood and heritage among men and other lesser species? This was a hard way of thinking he knew, but life had made him hard.  
His thoughts wandered again to the brilliance of the stone that remained at large, it’s absence a gaping hole above the throne of Thror. Where was it, the gem that gleamed with the brightness of a dozen suns? It’s absence among them seemed obvious and ominous; for the stone had long been attributed some divine power, signifying not only birth right, but the power with which to govern his people.   
Dain’s fingers turned restlessly over the smooth edge of the old silver ring he had taken from his cousin’s finger. Even as he felt the well-worn slip easily over his aged flesh, he could not recall exactly what had compelled him to take it. The ring had been passed down through the generations, and perhaps some part of him did not wish to see lost within a tomb should Thorin indeed pass.  
He cursed himself then for this lingering thought. He should have been hopeful for his cousin, and had as much faith in his recovery as these outsiders did. It seemed at the very least, Kili would survive his ordeal, and more than likely Fili who had been the least wounded of the three. Yet instead of lifting his spirit, these thoughts only made his heart sink. If they lived, what then? What was there for he and his kin who had traveled so far and lost so much while one of these pitiful exiles wore the crown of their fathers?  
Dain’s heart knew jealousy then as it never had before, and it consumed him like a fire. He turned his eyes from these dim chambers and walked away, his feet carrying down into the great hoard. It still reeked of Smaug, and more than likely would for months and years to come. But its golden gleam could not be dimmed to his eyes; not by strife or death, not by misfortune or war. Its vast beauty had endured all these years, and Dain decided then that it would be his clansman and his kin that would inherit it’s beauty and power, whatever the cost.

*** 

The great dining halls of the king, their long heavy oak tables and chairs so ill-used that they had become dulled with dust and cobwebs, had begun to feel the warmth and use of cooking and company again.   
There was no feasting; no great toasts of victory and cheers to the spoils of war, but instead quiet gatherings of friends and family, sharing a warm, comforting meal and a drink over long talks and cloudy memories. The old wood had seen more of tears and blood than of drops of ale and wine in these dark days.   
Here sat Bofur, huddled under his leathers and furs and many scarves, despite the warmth of the high roaring fire from the center pit of the room. The crackle of the wood and the pop of ashes and ambers rising up into the sky caught his eyes for a moment, making them gleam like bright copper. He ate bread and thick stew, slurping loudly as his dinner companion Balin sat across from him, eating cheese and drinking a small glass of red wine. The elder Dwarf gave him an appraising look under his bushy brows, and Bofur replied by wiping his mouth and mustache on his sleeve and smiling easily as he always did. “You’re in a fine temper, you old goat.” He chuckled, his tone friendly but edged with tiredness. “What’s got your dander up, eh?”  
Balin sighed and peered around the hall, as if checking to see if he would be over heard and when he spoke he leaned closer to the wild haired dwarf; “It’s Dain. Something’s amiss, I can feel it in my bones.”  
“Oh?” Bofur asked, taking another slurp of his stew before forgetting it entirely. “What makes you say that I wonder?”  
“He’s up to something. Ye didn’t see him today, in front of the Elf and the Wizard. Right cantankerous he was, I say, full of fire.”  
Bofur chuckled; “And you expected old Ironfoot to be all sweetness and sunshine when faced with the fact that our Kili is rolling in the hay with an elf—a prince, no less!” he laughed at the idea and smoothed the length of his curled mustache. “As I recall ol’ Thorin wasn’t too pleased about the development himself, till I reminded him that he was beddin’ a Hobbit.” His smile fell then when he thought of poor Bilbo and all he had endured for them. “How is the lad?”  
“Getting on as best he can, but to come to the point, Bofur, we have something wicked brewing on our hands, you can be sure of it. If Thorin doesn’t recover soon, or someone of our Company take charge of things around here, it’ll all be for naught.”  
“What’s that mean?”  
Balin leaned even closer then, his beard sweeping across the table top. “The Dragon Spell,” he whispered, watching Bofur’s eyes to see that he understood. “Or something worse, is taking hold of him. I could see it today, in the way he looked at the lads. Like they were good as buried.”  
The other Dwarf sat back heavily upon his chair and tapped his spoon upon the table for a time in thought. “Maybe it’s the stone he’s after.”  
“What stone?”  
“The bloody Arkenstone ye ninny! Ye must have heard what became of it, didn’t ye?” He nodded back towards the long corridors which they had come earlier. “Lil’ Mr. Baggins, clever little git, smuggled the thing in his coat when he was facing down Smaug. The boys told me that he was in town, trying to barter with it for weapons before this whole bloody mess went down. That’s why Thorin dismissed him. That damn stone.”  
They thought they heard a rustling then somewhere in the shadows between the torch and lantern light, but when they paused to listen further they heard nothing out of the ordinary and returned to talking amongst themselves.

*** 

There was only stillness in the deep and dark of the mountain. The few dozen sentries posted at the gates were far from view, and any that were roaming the halls had ceased activity. Outside the wind howled, and heavy banks of snow rolled down the mountainside in tiny avalanches, but none of it disturbed Bilbo Baggins, whom had his nose buried in his journal, busily penning away the events that had carried him to the strange and unhappy fate. Dark circles had formed beneath his eyes, which were red rimmed and drooping with the effort of holding them open, and exaggerated by the dim lantern light. Every now and then between quill strokes, he would look upon Thorin’s sleeping face, but was met with the same image one minute to the next, so that time seemed to pass out of all meaning for him.  
He nodding off, feeling himself losing the battle with sleep as his head refused to hold itself up, and his eyes burned with the need to close and remain so, when he heard the tiniest of dry whispers. “Water…”  
Bilbo sat up blinking, his book and pen sliding down in his lap as he glanced around in confusion, unsure if his mind were playing tricks on him. When he saw no movement from beyond the heavy curtains that divided the alcove from the rest of the great room, he turned his attention to the man upon the bed.  
Thorin’s head had turned upon the pillow, his fingers were grasping at the blankets, groping for something or someone. “Water…” his cracked lips mouthed again.   
Bilbo stared, and for a moment could do nothing at all. Then like a shot he was up, tripping over himself and nearly turning over the chair as he reached for the water pitcher and ladle. “Yes! Yes of course!” he gasped, his voice high and strange to his own ears as he filled the ladle which he filled hastily and held to Thorin’s dry lips. Much of the water dribbled at first down the man’s chin, as he seemed slow to respond as though still somewhat asleep. The coldness of it seemed to revive him, and when Bilbo filled it again he drank more greedily, reaching up to curl his finger’s over the hobbit’s on the handle.  
“Not too much, not too much,” Bilbo cautioned him as he pulled the ladle away to allow the man a full breath. As he watched the Dwarf breath heavily for a moment, Bilbo’s weary mind seemed to finally grasp what was happening before him, and he found himself frozen in stillness, breathless and dazed, unsure what to expect. “Better?” his lips fumbled. For a long moment Thorin said nothing, for breath seemed to be labor enough for him. Bilbo gripped the King’s hand worriedly in his, clutching it against his chest, where the Dwarf must have surely felt the pounding of his heart within. “Thorin?”  
Thorin’s heavy lidded eyes found his and as they cleared, they also wetted themselves with tears. He reached out his hand and found Bilbo’s shoulder, drawing him down against him, ignoring the ache in his battered body as he did so. “Forgive me. Bilbo. Forgive me.”  
Bilbo could say nothing at first, as he was not certain he had heard him right. Then his mouth, slack with shock, pulled back into a grin wide enough to light up his whole face, and bright tears dribbled down his cheeks as he let out a sniffling cry that was something of a sob and a laugh mixed together at once. He threw himself upon Thorin, wrapping his arms around his neck and burying his face in the thick mass of his dark hair. Thorin ignored the heavy, dull pain in his body and willed his arms to curl around the Hobbit’s slight figure, holding him tightly as the little body upon his shuddered with laughter and tears.  
“How happy I am,” Thorin breathed against the shell of the Hobbit’s ear, his own face slick with tears. “although I am unworthy of this joy you bring me.” Bilbo leaned back and took his face between his palms, remembering himself enough to ease his weight from the wounded King’s bandaged torso. “Oh hush up, you old bear.” He kissed him then, and Thorin held him close until breath was crushed from him and his wounds announced themselves sharply, making him wince and moan against the Hobbit’s lips.  
Only then did Bilbo pull himself back, seeing to his dismay a few small bright patches of red blood upon the King’s bandages. “Be still now, I will fetch Gandalf.”  
“It is nothing, stay,” Thorin pleaded. “I would not be parted from you again, not for a moment, my burglar.”  
“But you’re bleeding!”  
“I care not,” the King grumbled, kissing him again. Bilbo, though he would have loved nothing but to remain in Thorin’s grip, managed to wrestle himself free and to settle the wounded Dwarf back into his pillows. “Quiet now, your Majesty. You will listen to me for once and be still,” he said in a firm tone which made Thorin smile despite the grimaces of pain that ghosted over his handsome and battered features, relaxing obediently. “Lie quiet now,” Bilbo scolded before scurrying away from the bed and shouting to the whole of the room; “He’s awake! Come quickly, everyone! The King’s awake!”

The call echoed through the halls, and one by one there arose a great clamor. Torches were relit, warriors stirred from their cots and bedrolls. None reached the chamber of the King sooner than Dwalin, Balin, Bofur, Bifur, Nori, Ori, Dori, Oin, Golin, and poor old fat Bombur bringing up the rear.  
Bilbo greeted the excited lot, waving down their questions and exclamations with an insistent call for quiet and not too much excitement, for fear of overwhelming the man.  
“Let us through!” Dori whined, trying to see over a few of the shorter men.  
“Aye, let us pass, ye wee rabbit!”  
Bilbo puffed himself up then like a buff frog, and his cheeks turned a brief and bright shade of red as he stared down the clutter of clamoring Dwarves. “Get back, all of you, and quit making such a bloody fuss!” he barked at them in a tone that was somewhat motherly in its fierceness and scolding. The Company blinked back at him, each falling into line, looking a little ashamed of themselves for bullying their dear friend and muttering apologizes. Bilbo nodded at their compliance, hands on his hips beneath the open folds of his dressing gown. “That’s better. One at a time now, if you please, he’s very weak still. And keep your voices down!”   
“Mr. Baggins?”  
It was Kili who spoke now, as he fumbled to push himself up on his elbows with the help of his Elf companion. “Could I see him first?”  
There was no disputing this, and Legolas, out of respect for the family, remained behind while Bofur and Bilbo helped him limp along. Kili kept casting worried glances back at his brother, who remained inert upon his mat, face turned away from view. They held their collective breath as they approached the threshold beyond the dark damask tapestries to look upon their friend and leader.  
Thorin looked small among his pillows and blankets, and his skin was still sickly pale, but his eyes were clear and when he saw them the edges of his mouth turned to a warm smile. No words passed between them, but when Kili fell upon his uncle, letting his head dip to his chest, Thorin began to bellow with sobs of both grief, relief and joy. Bilbo wondered how much he remembered of the battle, and if he believed that his nephews had fallen. This seemed to have been the truth of it, for when he was able to gather himself again, he looked up worriedly at Bofur, who was wiping his own misty eyes upon his sleeve. “Where is Fili?”  
“Not far, but he’s still asleep. Took a Goblin knife between his ribs and has had a hard time of things. But he’ll come out alright.” Bofur spoke with what he hoped was confidence, but Thorin continued to clutch Kili and weep, until neither of the Durin’s could find an easy breath and shuddered with the weight of their sobs.  
Bilbo excused himself and Bofur, drawing the curtains shut to allow them privacy for a moment, and none of the other members of the Company protested, for they knew neither of the proud Dwarves would wish others to see them at their weakest.   
The room began to swell with visitors, most of whom were shushed and politely taken aside to explain the situation. It eventually became so noisy and jumbled within the room that Dwalin began shoving and pushing newcomers out, telling them to come back later and to shut their blabbering traps, lest they bring the mountain down on their heads.  
Over the sea of helmets, and braided manes, Gandalf could be seen making his way through the throng. “Good gracious me,” he mumbled as he waded through the sea of beards and boisterous voices, “so many Dwarves, so few manners. Let an old man pass will you!” They parted for him and allowed to the head of the throng. He gave a quick nod to Dwalin. “The noise in here is frightful. Might I suggest you take young Fili somewhere more hospitable for the time being?” The larger Dwarf nodded his balding head and turned to lift the wounded Dwarf and whisk him away through the crowd, with young Ori following at his heels.

*** 

Dwalin laid Fili upon a bed in an empty chamber that had previously been used to house soldiers. It perhaps was not the most comfortable of resting places, but it was quiet and out of the way. He turned to Ori, blinking down at the youngest member of their company; “Keep after ‘im will ye? And if he so much as twitches, come to fetch us.”  
“Of course!” Ori squeaked in response, a nervous fellow by nature, he clutched his ledger as he nodded, his floppy crown of hair falling in his eyes. Dwalin sighed heavily and muttered something under his breath before stomping off into the gathering throng again, leaving the other two Dwarves in relative silence. Ori looked over his friend’s wounds and covered him over with a wool blanket, trying to make sure that he remained warm and comfortable. “Guess you’re not lucky enough to have an Elf looking after you,” the young Dwarf chuckled to himself. “But that’s alright, we take care of our own. You’ll be alright, Mr. Gandalf said so. And Mr. Gandalf, he seems to know these things.”  
Fili’s face remained unchanged and Ori bowed his head and settled down upon a crate beside him and took to his pages again, making revisions and adding footnotes where they were needed. But the dim light and only the sound of Fili’s breathing soon caused his tired eyes to droop and his head to nod. He had been sleeping before all the excitement, and that it seemed things were under control, the rush of adrenaline he felt faded and he craved sleep. He looked again to the blonde dwarf upon the bed, and then fell quite quickly and soundly asleep.  
He did not hear the footsteps sweeping past the doorway, or the sound of quiet approach and the curious pause within in the doorway. Dain, who had been preoccupied in the depths of the hoard for the last several hours, and had not heard the news, had come up from the caverns below to retire at last for the evening.  
Stumbling upon this sight, however, had made him curious, and he looked about the room to make certain that indeed only the three of them were within these walls. The Dwarf Lord paused before Ori, giving his shoulder a little tap of his thick finger, but the sleeping Dwarf did little but sigh and adjust himself more comfortably in his slumped position, half on the cot and half on the crate on which he sat.  
Dain then came to stand over Fili’s prostrate figure, his eyes searching the unconscious youth’s face for some sign of recovery or awareness. There was none, however, and Dain found a new and terrible thought budding in the muddled darkness of his mind. Without considering his actions, Dain raised his thick calloused palm and placed it over Fili’s nose and mouth, applying enough pressure to smother the sleeping dwarf.  
It should have been quick and quiet, with no one knowing the difference. But Fili’s brow furrowed after a few seconds and he began to resist, struggling for breath beneath his hand. Dain applied more pressure, trying to muffle the sound of struggle. But Ori lifted his head then with a snort and a gasp, and the old King took a step back, startled.  
“Lord Dain?” the youth asked groggily, rubbing his eyes at the old Dwarf. Dain stared back at him with a strange expression, and Ori noted the sweat upon his brow. But his attentions were drawn away by the coughs and gasps that escaped Fili’s mouth and he was up at once, crouching over his friend. “Fili? Fili are you alright?”  
The blonde rasped for air for a second, coughing himself into conscious and looked at Ori with watery eyes. “Dying…drowning…!” he gasped incoherently, and Ori wondered if the young heir’s mind hadn’t gone back to their terrible experience in Mirkwood when they had been cocooned within the Spider’s terrible webs. “No, no you’re not,” he assured. “You’re safe here, on the good dry earth. Sit yourself up here, I’ll help you, that’s it…”  
“Where’s my brother? Where’s Kili?”  
“With your uncle. He’s come to, you know, and now you too! Oh Mr. Bilbo will be pleased, he will!”  
At this Dain spoke, bringing their attention to him once more; “Thorin is awake?”  
Ori nodded, still not fully grasping his presence there. “Yes! Just woke up, and Mr. Bilbo he came and fetched us all. I thought you knew, sir…”  
Dain did not stay to converse further with them, and hurried off down the corridors, his robes flowing behind him so that they barely touched the stone floor. As he came through the throng he gave little heed to the glad tidings his men offered at the news, his own face set in stone as he strode towards the bed chamber. He threw wide the curtains, his eyes falling upon his cousin, who was lying back in exhaustion against his pillows, with Kili propped beside him, speaking to him and the young hobbit of his bravery in battle while Gandalf mixed some sort of salve in a medicine bowl.  
They each looked with curiosity upon Dain’s figure, but it was the elder Dwarf Lord who spoke first; “So it’s true. You live.”  
Thorin looked upon his kin’s face and offered a small smirk. “You seem disappointed, my old friend.”  
Dain gave a sharp laugh and instead clapped a rough hand upon Thorin’s arm and drew him into a rough embrace that made the wounded man grunt and wince. Bilbo winced as well and looked incredulously at Kili; “Must you lot always be so rough with each other?! Broken bones and contusions aren’t enough, you feel the need to add your own?”  
“Steady, burglar.” Thorin replied, reaching for Bilbo. The affectionate way he touched the Halfling gave Thorin a sudden idea, and smiled, seeming to return to himself, his shock fading away. “Good Mr. Baggins will forgive me, I’m sure. This old war lord has not often had reason to believe that things will turn out for the best. I am pleasantly surprised to see that I was wrong.”  
Bilbo nodded, but he remained protectively at Thorin’s side. He had an uneasy feeling in his gut when it came to Dain Ironfoot, though he suspected it was largely because the Dwarves of the Iron Hills were so very different from Thorin and his companions.  
“Kili! Kili!” Ori’s voice was heard above the crowd and they looked out to see him scrambling through the crowd, tripping over his long knit scarf as he struggled past the others. The dark haired Dwarf sat up, looking worriedly at his friend. “What is it?”  
“Fili! It’s Fili!” And it was only the smile upon Ori’s young face that made Kili’s heart raise from the depths of his stomach where it had fallen for a few terrible seconds. A grin split his face as he looked around at the others and all but crowed with excitement. He tried to stand, but his broken leg would not hold him and he nearly fell, only to be caught by Bofur. Kili clambered up the man’s back until he was astride his back and gave him a slap, “He’s awake! Let’s go, let’s go!” he howled, and Bofur whooped, giving a kick of his heels and he rushed after Ori, who was leading the way.   
A warmth had returned to the halls of the snowy mountain, and laughter again filled it’s halls. Thorin smiled in relief at this news and closed his eyes tiredly, clasping Bilbo’s hand in his. “Some power watches over us from affair,” he mumbled tiredly and Bilbo hushed him and kissed his brow as Gandalf moved to apply the salve to his wounds.   
“I feel that a feast is in order,” Dain announced then to the gathering at the door. “Let the Mountain ring with the triumph of Durin! Long may his people reign!”  
The gathered throng roared back in the affirmative before scattering to make preparations for the celebration. Dain turned back to Bilbo then, whom had moved aside to allow Gandalf to work. “I hope you will accept a seat of honor at our table, Mr. Baggins, and forgive me my cold words before.”  
Bilbo hesitated, but then nodded graciously. “Certainly, my lord, be glad to.”  
Dain laughed and clapped him roughly upon the shoulder. “My little friend, I wish to hear more of the part you had to play in this grand tale, and then perhaps I shall have some stories to tell you as well.”

***


	3. The Ransom and the Theif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master of Lake Town, bitter and consumed by greed, finds himself presented with an unexpected turn of fate when the Elven King comes seeking his missing son. Bard finds himself trapped on an errand of ransom that might very well bring another war down upon them, while in Erebor, Dain's mad plan to take the throne ensnares Bilbo, who believes he is being sent on a mission of mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *a'mael--Elvish for "beloved"

*** 

In the cold beyond the mountain, no feasts were to be had. Supplies had been cut off for more than a week since the decent of the Dwarves to the mountain, and many of the store houses had been burned to the ground after the coming of the dragon.  
Lake Town, which had enjoyed a relatively peaceful and prosperous existence, now found itself in dire straits. Bard, draped in furs and leathers to help ward off the harsh wind that came off the frozen lake made his way through the snow drifted streets, nodding greeting to any he passed as they waved to him in kind adoration, despite their weary dispositions.  
He came to the largest house in the town, which was occupied by the Master of the town; known to most as Maxwell. The warm glow from the fire pit in the center of the great room greeted the weary man as he stepped inside, as did the smell of soup bubbling within a heavy cast iron cauldron over the fire.  
“Bard, my friend, there you are! Hurry and close the door, you’re letting in that terrible wind.” Maxwell called from his place by the hearth. His lumbering, bulbous form stirred from it’s position upon the great chair as he ushered the other man forward. Bard moved passed the Master’s lazing collection of old hounds, who were attempting to nap in the fire glow and removed his hood to better look upon the man he had once considered a close companion. “How is the hero of Lake Town this day, terrible though it is?”  
His long stringy hair hung down along the sides of his gowls, and his beady, watery eyes glinted in the faint grey light that came from the high windows, some which were still shattered from the attacks before. A breath of snow swirled in and the Master huddled deeper beneath his furs and glowered at the fire, poking impatiently at its embers and causing hot sparks to fly up into the air, some close enough that Bard had to wave them away.  
“What reason has it to be terrible,” the dark haired bowman asked, moving closer to him. “You look comfortable enough.”  
“I should be,” Maxwell sneered. “I should be tasting the sweetest wines from Elvish stores, and feasting on fresh potatoes and thick cuts of venison and lamb. Instead, there’s only this swill.” He kicked out at the cauldron, making it’s swing and slosh over the fire, nearly threatening to douse it. Bard steadied it with a poker and glared at the sniveling man. “Be grateful, Maxwell. You may not have your wine, but the villagers at least have their lives, at least for now. A heavy storm is blowing down from the North, it will arrive by nightfall. We should get the homeless into the great hall soon.”  
“And why would I do that?”  
Bard glared at him. “Are you really so selfish?”  
The heavy man looked at the floor in his admonishment and sighed. “Very well. let them pass the storm there. I believe we have enough blankets and skins to keep them comfortable.”  
“They could always use more.”  
Maxwell settled back into his chair, sinking further into his coats. “Well don’t look at me, dear lad. I’ve lost my stores and my cellars. What more would you take from me?” He leered up then at the high windows and the faint drifts of snow that came from them. “Damn their lot. If I had only known that day that they were coming down the river in those barrels, I would have drown them all.”  
The light of the fire cast a dark shadow upon his face as he spoke this, making him seem all too grim and menacing. Bard sighed tiredly and scratched the prickle of hair that covered the sharp corners of his jaw. “This coming of the King was foretold to us, old friend. Cursing fate will help nothing now.”  
“He is no King of mine! Demandable Dwarves! They’ve disrupted everything! Not only do they bring Smaug down upon our heads, they bring Goblins from the mountains to raid our livestock and kill our hunters, and worst of all they set the Elves against us!”  
“The Elves are not against us.”  
Maxwell scowled, his thick lip curling upward, causing his long hooked nose to pinch. “Indeed?” He gave pause for a moment as Bard settled down by the fire and helped himself to a ladle of hot stew, which was watered down and sparse on ingredients.  
There was a great thud upon the heavy wooden door then that caused them both to rise in wonder. Before the Master could beckon them entry, the heavy wood creaked open, allowing a gale of snowy wind to fill the hall, rippling their furs and pushing the hair from their faces. In stepped a most unlikely guest to the hall; two Elves of the Woodland Realm, clad in the brown, green and silver of their clan, stood at the door. One was a male, tall and fair with cold eyes and dark hair; the other a woman, her long red hair hanging down like tendrils across her back and shoulders. They bowed quickly before Bard and Maxwell, and it was the woman who spoke.  
“Our Lord King Thrandruil of the great forest of Mirkwood wishes council with the Master of Lake Town.” The woman said, her voice clear and firm. Bard had seen her before, along with the elf known as Legolas.  
“King Thradruil is here?” Bard found himself asking. The woman looked at him sharply, at first not recognizing him, but her gazed eased as she recalled the Man. “Bard the Bowman, we meet again.”  
“Where is your charge?” Bard asked, smiling almost wickedly at her, for he found this youthful Elf girl amusing. “The young prince with which you were so concerned upon our last meeting? As I recall, you threatened to cut out my tongue if you caught me bantering with him again, was that right?”  
She gave him a glare, and Bard suspected that for an Elf it was meant to be quite intimidating, but she spoke no more to him and turned her attention again to Maxwell. “What is your answer? The King does not like to be kept waiting.”  
“Neither do I.” Maxwell huffed as he sauntered to him. “Bring him here, if he will come, for I have much to speak with him.”  
They were both surprised then to find that Thrandruil was already at the gate, and upon these words he entered. He was a glory upon which Maxwell had never laid eyes on before. Many an elf he had seen in his long business of trade, but never the King himself. Thrandruil looked like some forgotten God of winter, cloaked in white and grey, a bare crown of horned branches tipped with frost and ice upon his graceful head.  
Both Bard and Maxwell bowed before him, and he nodded in kind as the doors were shut behind him and the two men and Maxwell’s servants hastened to make their guests comfortable before the fire, offering them food, drink and blankets, but none of these interested them. “Good Elven King, what brings you here?” Bard asked, for he had spoken with the Elf once before, and thought him above making these errands himself.  
But in Thrandruil’s beautiful and stoic face was a new, an alarming expression. He looked to Bard and bowed to him; “Brave Bard of the descendants of Dale, my heavy heart is lifted to have you here, in this dire hour.”  
“’Dire hour’?” Maxwell gulped, his many chins wobbling. “The hour of the Dragon has passed, then came the Wargs and the Goblins, now comes this deadly winter. Of what ‘dire hour’ do you speak?”  
Bard gave him a look that begged his silence, but Thrandruil spoke again; “In the battle many lives were lost. One of my sons was among the dead.”  
“My condolences, your majesty,” Bard said sincerely, for death was something the Elves bore with great sorrow as it was nearly foreign among their people, who could live for thousands and thousands of years without fear of it. Only one death before this had touched Thrandruil in such a way; and that was death of his father Oropher; a loss that had haunted him for many long years, passing out of memory of mortal men.  
The Elf King, his sorrow deeply evident, looked upon the men with a piercing gaze that was colder than howling wind outside their doors. “Where is my son, Legolas?”  
The Men blinked at him, not entirely certain they understood. “Was this the same son of whose passing you speak?” Maxwell asked slowly, trying to comprehend.  
“No,” Thrandruil cut. “My youngest son, what has become of him? Three nightfalls and he has not returned to camp. My guards tell me that he was last seen among your men.” Bard and their host looked cautiously at one another.  
“Your Majesty, we have not seen your son since before the battle.” Maxwell assured with a deep throaty chuckle that did little prove his sincerity on the matter. “And though your kith and kin are always welcomed within our city, these days there is little to welcome them too, what with our supply route at a standstill and the losses taken by Smaug…”  
Thrandruil raised a hand to silence him and anger flashed in his bright clear eyes. “I will hear no more of your petty complaints. For many years my kind have traded in peace with your village, and you have grown rich and fat and spoiled. Our meeting upon the mountain proved what it is you value most. I would then, not find it difficult to believe that you would deceive me, and keep from me that what is precious to me in order to gain leverage over your bleak situation.”  
Bard was stunned at this, realizing to great dismay what thought had entered the distraught King’s mind. He spoke quickly and honestly then, before Maxwell could open his mouth; “We would never keep any of your people here against their wishes, King Thrandruil. On my honor, you must believe this. I have ever been a friend of your people. We have suffered much in these dark days, all of us. Let us not let tragedy make us enemies.”  
But the Elf seemed unmoved. It was the woman, Tauriel who spoke then; “I believe that they have sincerity in their hearts, My King. I do not believe that Legolas is being held here.”  
It was with great courage she spoke; for Thrandruil was in a dark temper, and did not take well to being contradicted in his beliefs. But for the moment, his pride was not the issue here. He had lost one child, he would not risk another.  
“I saw your son,” Bard said then, to the surprise and interest of all, “as I recall he was on one of the last boats to cross the lake before the freeze. I’ve not seen him since.”  
“That would mean he’s in the Mountain,” Maxwell said then thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “Perhaps it’s the Dwarves whom have something to gain from his absence.”  
The dark haired man turned to the Master of Lake Town with a look of incredulity, gripping his shoulder with almost painful urgency; “You’re mad! The Dwarves have suffered heavy losses themselves, what have they to gain from such a ransom?”  
“What indeed?” Maxwell replied. He looked innocently at the King and his guards; “As I recall, there was the small matter of the great Dwarven gem. What was it? The Arkenstone, I believe they called it. Was that not what the Halfling brought to you that day when he came to beg for your assistance?”  
Maxwell would seem a great fool then, provoking Thrandruil as he was, but he was in truth a shrewd and devious man. Already a plan had hatched within his mind, which turned feverously over the thoughts of the mountains of gold hidden within those stone walls, more than enough to keep him in wine, bread and meats for many, many winters to come, and build him a palace of his own.  
Thrandruil’s fury was evident, and the light in the room seemed to shrink around them, the wind outside howled more fiercely, and sharpness of his eyes seemed brighter than the firelight before them. Maxwell spoke again, this time with more congeniality; “Perhaps it is merely the storm that keeps him there,” he suggested amiably. “and he will return to you upon the thaw.”  
“And if he does not?”  
“I share your grief, my friend. No father should have to endure the painful uncertainty of their child’s fate. Let us, as your loyal friends, lend you our assistance in your time of need.” He looked then to Bard, who had watched this transpire with growing dread, “Bard, my friend! You know the routes that circumvent the lake and lead to the mountain foothills, do you not?”  
“I do.”  
“Excellent! Then surely you, and your new friendship with the young Shireling and his Dwarvish companions, can procure safe passage for the Prince.”  
“What are you suggesting?” Bard hissed at him, but Maxwell knew he had him snared. “We will of course, need some supplies.”  
Thrandruil stood then, staring down at the two men. “Return my son to me, and my due share of the Dragon’s spoils and all the jewels within my treasury are at your disposal, Master of Lake Town. Including the Arkenstone.”  
Maxwell bowed low and humble before the king and kissed his hand, which Thrandruil retracted with no small amount of disgust. They turned to leave, “Heed me,” Thrandruil warned them, “I will not be deceived. If your words are false, and your intensions borne from greed, or if any harm should befall Legolas before his return; I will not hesitate to wage war between our peoples. And I believe that we are both quite aware of which side holds sway.”  
Bard made to go after him, but Tauriel gave him a look against it as she shut the door behind them. He shook with barely contained rage, his mind reeling, the barely digested soup in his stomach rolling uneasily. He fell upon Maxwell, grabbing him but the collar of his great coat and shaking him like a dog; “You fool! You blasted fool! Are you trying to start a war? Has their not been enough death and destruction for your satisfaction?! You’ve killed us all!”  
“Not when you bring that pointy-eared fool back to his kin! This must be done, Bard, and it will be done! With that bounty, we could rebuild, resupply! Just one of his jewels would be enough to feed our village for a year!”  
Bard backed away, his head spinning. His mind had now turned to another possibility, a detail he had kept in secret from even his closest confidants, and certainly from his gold hungry companion. Bilbo Baggins had indeed come to them with the Arkenstone, offering it in exchange for aid. Bard had been stunned when the events had transpired, but in the Hobbit’s face he had seen a familiar terror. He was trying desperately to save the life of those he loved, whom he believed to be doomed.  
Bard wondered now what had become of the Halfling, or the Great King Under the Mountain and his companions, and if they would ever forgive the little Hobbit for stealing their treasure to save their lives. The stone, Bard had accepted in secret, and had planned to barter with Thorin with it before the Goblins had set their armies upon them and turned the former enemies into allies.  
Before the Battle, Bard had taken the jewel and hidden it along the pass which Maxwell had spoken, where it would hopefully be safe from plundering Goblins until the time came to return it. Thrandruil must also believe that the Dwarves were in possession of the gem, or he would not have promised it as a reward.  
“Very well. You are right, what choice do we have in the matter?” he said at length, trying to gain his composure as a new plan formed in his mind. The Master clapped him upon his broad back happily, clasping him close. “I knew you would see reason, my friend.”

*** 

The preparations for the feast continued into the wee hours of the morning; and Erebor was full of light and sound and the smells of hearty cooking and cured meats; the wafting scent of wine brought up from ancient cellars and barrels of ale being cracked open to pour freely. New life breathed into its corridors and grand halls, and songs were sung here that had not been heard since before the coming of the great dragon. But for all his love of merriment, Bilbo found this celebration to be strange and oddly out of place.  
Bilbo, after his first decent sleep in many days, had spent the morning changing bandages and bed clothes, brewing herbal teas and medicinal drinks for aches and pains and scrounging around the palace kitchens for scraps of a decent breakfast for the three Durins (and himself.) Being so small, even compared to Dwarves once again proved to his advantage, for he could slip and out of the commotion within the halls and galleys without hardly even being noticed. Only Bofur, who seemed to be aware of him at all times, was clever and quiet enough to slip Bilbo several thick fresh slices of bacon from Bombur’s large plate, noting that Fili and Kili needed to get their strength back as soon as possible.  
He couldn’t have been more right on the matter, for Thorin’s wounds would keep him bed ridden for days yet, and soon the Dwarves would need a figurehead to lead them in these uncertain days of establishment and rebirth.  
Fili and Kili were as inseparable as ever, and as Bilbo passed with his plate of pilfered goods, he found the two of the huddled together around one of the central fire pits, talking in quick and hushed tones with their heads bent close together. It seems they were attempting to keep from disturbing the others in the room, for both Legolas and Ori were asleep.  
“There he is! Hero of the hour!” Kili grinned as Bilbo stepped into the room, making him blink in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”  
“Look at you, so modest!” the dark haired youth continued, beaming from ear to ear though it exaggerated the scratches and scrapes upon his face. “Come and sit with us, Bilbo! We’ll share this feast of a breakfast you’ve brought and toast to your good and honorable name!”  
Fili put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and tried to make him be still as he looked to Bilbo, “Don’t mind him, it seems Legolas fed him some Elvish leaf, now he feels like he could go facing down a hundred Goblins all on his own, barehanded.”  
Bilbo nodded slowly, “Well, whatever helps I guess. I am pleased to see the two of you doing so well. Your uncle and I talked long into the night about it.”  
They had a moment’s reprieve from Kili’s chatter while he hungrily bit into a slab of bacon, allow Fili, who seemed a bit shakier to speak; “How is uncle?”  
“Not well. He’ll can’t sit up without help; the sword wound he took does not allow him to sit comfortably for more than a few seconds, and there’s a fever brewing in him. Gandalf says he’ll need to be carefully watched for a time.”  
“Why aren’t you with him now?” Kili asked. And here Bilbo gave a pregnant pause that was only perhaps understood in its smallest measure. “He needs his rest, and he asked me to check in on you two.” He smiled as he said this, but it was a strained smile. Fili sensed that there was something going on below the surface of Bilbo’s gentle exterior, something that had begun the day that Thorin had dismissed him. But it was not for him to voice, not here and not now. Instead a new worry was in his mind. He nodded, looking paler than usual. “Then I don’t expect he’ll be attending the festivities. Dain will want someone to speak on his behalf.”  
“Not it,” Kili mumbled through a mouthful. His eyes seemed almost over-bright, and both Bilbo and Fili began to wonder if he was entirely coherent. “That burden falls to you, brother, and I would not be you for all the world!”  
It seemed clear that Fili had little desire to fall into the duties of ruler so soon, and Bilbo couldn’t blame him. Though far more level-headed and even-tempered than his brother, he was still young and his heart was not in kingship, but in a simpler life which he had always lived. “What should I say to them?” he asked Bilbo.  
The little Hobbit looked at him with a wide-eyed mix of pity and exasperation. “Well, I’m quite sure I wouldn’t know. But Thorin will instruct you, Balin at the very least I would assume.”  
“I haven’t seen ol’ snow beard. Where you think he’s gone?” Fili asked reaching for a sweet roll and stuffing the whole of it in his mouth at once. He nearly choked on it trying to swallow it whole, and when Fili clapped him upon the back he noticed that the bandages wrapped around Kili’s chest had begun to sleep fresh blood. Fili cursed bitterly in Dwarvish as his brother stared down with a mix of fascination and fear. “Oh dear, oh dear!” Bilbo found himself babbling as he looked at the seeping wound, standing up so quickly that he knocked his mug of hot tea into the fire, causing it to sputter and steam.  
All the commotion woke the Elf, who was swiftly and silently at Kili’s side, lifting him up in his arms. “Be at ease, I’ll take you to the healer.”  
“Hello there beautiful,” Kili grinned, kissing Legolas heatedily. This made his love realize that he was burning with fever that had crept up on him without warning. The herbs he had given him earlier had dulled the pain but had far from erased the cause. “Kili, a’mael, you’re ill. Let me care for you.”  
Fili lifted himself as if to protest, but his own body throbbed painfully and he reluctantly sat back down. Legolas departed with the other wounded Dwarf, leaving them alone. It was then that Bilbo looked worriedly to his blonde haired companion; “He’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”  
“I used to take care of him.” Fili sighed, though he was shaking and sweating himself, Bilbo helped him to lie back down in his own bed and covered him over, “I confess that I don’t know much of these affairs, but I wouldn’t worry. Kili is your brother. Just because he’s in love, doesn’t mean that he will forget you.”  
This seemed to offer Fili some small amount of comfort, and he fell into an uneasy sleep. Bilbo watched him for a time, then gathered their soiled dishes and made his way out into the corridors once more. It was here he was met by the imposing figure of Dain Ironfoot, whom didn’t look as surprised to see Bilbo as he was to see him.  
“Oh you startled me!” Bilbo blurted out, almost angrily. His nerves were frayed enough with things like this popping up around him and scaring the hell out of him.  
“Forgive me, Mr. Baggins, I did not see you. Is everything well?”  
“Well, if you want the truth, then no, it isn’t,” Bilbo found himself blurting out before he could remember fully whom he was speaking to and as he did his cheeks turned dark red and he bowed his head, “Forgive me, sire, I spoke out of turn.”  
“I would have you speak freely, Hobbit. What is it that troubles you?” Dain asked, and Bilbo found himself taken aback by the old war lord’s good nature. “You would have me speak freely?” he asked cautiously.  
“Of course.” Dain put his heavy arm around the Hobbit’s shoulders as they walked.  
“Well, it’s only that…I feel this feast may be a bit…” he felt very self-coconscious, afraid what his simple words may do to the pride of such a prestigious leader, who was far worldlier than he. After all, he had seen what it had done to Thorin. “…premature.”  
“Ah, I see,” Dain said with a sympathetic nod of his head, his dark beard and long hair falling back and forth over his heavily robed frame. “Perhaps you are right. I am not blind to the condition in which my cousin and his nephews find themselves. That they live at all is nothing short of some miracle. Mahal be praised.”  
Bilbo nodded in agreement, “Thorin cannot leave his bed, his abdominal wounds are too great, and his head wound troubles me still.”  
“I see,” Dain nodded, and then he smiled. “You have kept a close watch on him, haven’t you?”  
Bilbo blushed faintly and cast his eyes to the floor as he did when he felt on the spot. His nervous fingers twisted around the little ring he kept tucked into his pocket, for at that moment he did wish he could disappear. “It’s only that I…feel I have a duty to do so.” He answered awkwardly, feeling strangely defensive.  
“You have done more than your duty, Mr. Baggins. Far more, in fact, than the contract you signed.” At this Bilbo startled, for he was taken aback by this relative stranger’s knowledge of him. Before he could inquire further however, they found themselves again in Thorin’s chambers. They were both surprised to see the Dwarf leaning upon the post of his bed, attempting it seemed to be walk. But he was doubled over, clutching his stomach, making a horrible sound of a restrained moan.  
“Thorin!”  
Bilbo was off and running before Dain could fully comprehend what he was looking at. Thorin dropped to his knees, unable to support himself any further. Bilbo got his arms around the Dwarf and heaved him up as best he could. Thorin bellowed in pain again and gripped the Hobbit as though his life depended on it. “What are you doing?” Bilbo gasped as he attempted to lift him back into bed.  
“I couldn’t find you…” the black haired dwarf managed to cough as the Hobbit laid him back in bed. Bilbo gave him a heartbreakingly tender look, and then found himself scowling in frustration as he noticed the seeping in his bandages, reminding him all too much of Kili, and he inwardly cursed how alike the two could be. “I am right here,” he assured. “you mustn’t try to get up, Gandalf said it was too soon.”  
Thorin only groaned and faded out of consciousness, much to his lover’s distress. He covered his hand with his face in an effort to hold back what threatened to boil over. It was exactly the moment that Dain had been looking for. “Weep not, my friend, I share in your grief and dismay. There has been far too much suffering in these halls. Perhaps for our dear Thorin most of all.” His great hand settled upon Bilbo’s shoulder and clamped there, and the Hobbit listened now as he spoke; “Mr. Baggins, what do you know of the Arkenstone?”  
The Halfling felt a little shiver race up and down his back. “Not much, my Lord.”  
“It is a shame that it has been lost. It was noted in the great ledgers of Thror, that the stone possessed the power to heal the sick and dying. The old notes are faint and crumbling with age, but I believe that there is something to them. I have been searching these past few days, for any sign of the gem within the dragon’s hoard, but I alone could never accomplish such a task in time to be of any use. And that’s if it remains within Erebor at all.”  
Dain knew that the Hobbit was listening earnestly to his every word, for he had felt a stiffness in his muscles at this deception. Dain touched Thorin’s limp form pityingly; “My poor cousin. So far you have come, through such degregation, danger and hardship. The thought that I may yet see you lain in the tombs of your fathers, before you are ever put upon their throne…how my heart aches for you.”  
Bilbo turned to him then, and the look upon his face let the war lord know that he had been snared; “If I could produce the stone, you could use it to heal him? All of them?”  
“If indeed, Mr. Baggins. But you do not suggest that you could scale the vast wealth within the horde faster than three dozen of my own men. Have you ever even seen the jewel?”  
Bilbo bit his lip, and when he spoke his voice trembled; “I have. I have seen it before. I found it, sometime ago in fact.”  
Dain pretended to be shocked, “And how came you by that?”  
“I…” Bilbo’s insides twisted and he felt like retching everywhere, Thorin’s angry words from before resounding in his head and wounded heart. “It is a long story, I’m afraid. One that haunts and shames me. But I can produce the stone; of that I am certain.” He looked again worriedly to Thorin, brushing his sweaty hair from his face. “But it will take me time. Time I’m afraid I don’t have.”  
“And what time is that, little one?”  
“I must go to Lake Town. It will be difficult in the storm, but I will manage. I won’t need much, I can travel lightly. I could return here by the following night.”  
“You seem so sure of this. But it is a dangerous trek down the mountain in these snows. I would not have you lose life for something that may be a mere myth.”  
But Bilbo shook his head; “If it saves his, then I do not care what happens to me. I was brought here to be a thief, a burglar. And a burglar I shall be again.”


	4. Knives in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili looks after Thorin and comes to realize that something is deeply amiss within Erebor, mainly concerning the sudden an unexplained disappearance of Bilbo. Meanwhile, Legolas ponders the choices that lead him into Kili's arms, only to stumble upon a most unpleasant surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, and a quick introduction to the fact that I really love cliff-hangers.

*** 

 

Thorin swam up from a dark, dreamless stupor to pain radiating from his middle. He made to moan again, more out of sheer frustration of having pain that of the injuries themselves, and a hand found his in the dimness. It was not Bilbo’s this time; it was thicker and partially gloved. Thorin blinked around, trying to focus his eyes, and found Fili beside him. His nephew smiled at him and offered him a heavily herbal smelling drink. Thorin took it without protest, swallowing down the bitter taste along with the urge to vomit. He had been wounded in battle before, but these wounds had made him hideously aware of how connected his muscles were, and that every little tiny nerve from his head to his toes could somehow manage to share the agony that he felt in his chest and stomach.   
But Thorin forced his mind from these thoughts to focus on Fili, whom he had not seen since the battle. “Is the pain so bad? Shall I fetch Gandalf?”  
“It matters not, you’re here.” He lifted a heavy hand, latched his fingers into Fili’s blonde mane of hair and pulled him down close so that their heads and noses touched. Fili winced but went gladly into this familiar embrace, for in battle he had feared he would never have it again. “I am so glad to see you, my dear boy.”  
“Not as much as I am you,” Fili nodded, and slowly unlatched Thorin’s hand from his head that he may sit up and be more comfortable. Gandalf had given him strong herbs to combat his pain, and whatever magic he had infused into it to allow him to walk about freely, though it was with a noted limp and slow gait. Thorin had a better look of him then, and guilt struck at him again and again like hammer blows. He bared his teeth and hid his face beneath his palm for a moment, trying to think and breathe all at once.   
Fili touched his arm, “Don’t, you’ll only make it worse. Do not weep, Thorin. We’re here.”  
“And that is none of my doing,” his uncle muttered. “It was my selfishness, my greed and folly that did this to you and your brother. I can never forgive myself for that.”  
“Kili and I are alive! You were under the dragon spell, it was not your fault--!”  
“Silence, Fili!” Thorin barked, and it erupted a pain within him that made him fall back into his pillows, moaning and twitching. Fili tried to still him, but he knew there was no mending his uncle’s guilty conscience. He had already forgiven him, for he would have followed Thorin to the ends of the world, to death and beyond with just a word, for he loved him and would remain loyal to him all the days of his life. It wasn’t their forgiveness Thorin needed; it was Bilbo’s.  
“Bilbo asked me to look in on you. You’ve been asleep for six hours, it’s morning now. Tuesday morning, I believe. I can’t quite recall the days.” He shivered slightly in the cold and got up to stoke the fire, and Thorin watched him with bleary eyes. “Where is my burglar?”  
Fili smiled at this, for it did him good to hear Thorin speak kindly and personally of the Hobbit again. “I can’t say. He said he had an errand, but I imagine he’s probably down in the pantry trying to scavenge some food from the stores before it’s gathered up for the feast.”  
“Feast? What feast?”  
“Dain is holding one, in honor of our victory.”  
Thorin tried to comprehend this, for even Dain’s name seemed foreign in his hazy mind, which now felt misty with medicine that had dulled his hurts. It occurred to Fili then that Thorin might not have realized how the battle had come out, and so he explained, as best he could by what he could remember and by what others had spoken to him of the events.  
Thorin listened silently, only nodding his head or giving a little sigh now and again to show that he had heard and understood. The torn parts of tapestry slowly mended themselves together, revealing the missing whole of the story. But the King felt no comfort. “And what of the Elves and the Bowman?”  
“The Elves have gone now, I assume, all except for Legolas who remains here with Kili,” he did not pause, not really interested in hearing Thorin’s opinion on that again, “and the men are trapped within their village by the storm, much as we are trapped within the mountain. Do you think they’ll survive?”  
Thorin seemed uncertain, if Lake Town was indeed in as dire condition as Bard had told him before. “They may for a time, but they won’t last long if the elves refuse to trade with them again. And for that too, I regret. “ He paled and rubbed his head tiredly, “Where is Bilbo?” he asked again. Fili moved from the fire and pulled the blankets up closer around him. “Shall I fetch him for you?”  
“He will not come…I have sent him away.” Fili frowned worriedly, realizing Thorin was slipping from reality. He shushed him until he fell asleep again, and then resolved that he must speak with Bilbo and Dain as well.   
It was only as he was leaving his uncle’s chambers that he slowly began to notice that some of Bilbo’s things were missing. He made his way out into the corridors, avoiding folk wherever he could so as to not be distracted or deterred on his way to the kitchens.  
Inside the arched doors, the warmth of cooking fires and the smells of dozens of delicious foods wafted over him at once, making him feel warm and almost drowsy with it. He thought he would find Bilbo here, sitting upon a stool peeling potatoes or otherwise fussing over some meal as he had since their very first meeting. Fili had always enjoyed Bilbo’s cooking and love of food, and was enticed by the idea of the Hobbit remaining in their company so that he might ever be akin to his generosity and hospitality.   
But in the sea of faces, Fili saw no part of the Halfling. He was however greeted by Bofur and Bombur, who were indeed helping with the feast. “Fili! There’s my lad!” Bofur opened an arm and drew him in to an embrace, bringing him to bend over a cauldron. “Rabbit stew! What do you think? Some of Dain’s boys brought them in from the wild before the maylay started! Lucky I found it before it spoiled, eh? I’ve added all the spices…this should put some hair on your brother’s face, I’ll wager eh!” He laughed and so did Bombur, but Fili had no time for jokes.  
“Have you seen Bilbo about?”  
“Oh, he was hear just an hour or so ago, scrounging for a flask and some apples. Thought you and Kili would know something about that?”  
The blonde shook his head, feeling more confused than ever. “Did he say where he was going? Thorin wants to see him, and he’s in a bad way.”  
This made the others stop what they were doing, their merriment forgotten. “Is he? I’ll go and see him then, shall I? Bombur will help you find our burglar, once he stops stuffing his gob with those potatoes, right brother?”  
Bombur looked up innocently, then swallowed harshly and coughed before saying through watering eyes; “Perhaps he was with Gandalf?”  
“I’ve not seen him either. Not since yesterday,” Fili noted and it was then that he began to get an ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bofur saw this fear upon his face and grew more concerned. “Come, we’ll all go look for Mr. Baggins.”

*** 

The Elf found himself feeling restless, starved for fresh air and sunlight within the deep dark confines of the mountain. Though Mirkwood was cut off from the world in the way that it had grown dark and deep and wild, it was never so closed in that he could not find a patch of light to warm himself in, or climb to the tallest trees and look above the world and see it’s rise and fall in the distance with it’s valleys and rivers and the mountain in the distance. But now he had come to the mountain, and it had closed in upon itself.  
For the first time since he had impulsively leapt upon the boat making its final passage across the lake, had he thought about his home, his brothers and father and their people left in the wilderness, trying to make sense of a battle that should have never come.  
Legolas was the twelfth of twelve sons, and no daughters that were born to Thrandruil and his wife. His mother had been one of the High Elves, and when he, the last of her many sons, had reached maturity, she went over the Sea to the Undying Lands to be with the rest of her people and to await the day when her husband and children would join her. A few of his brothers had, but most had remained in the Woodland Realm, and enjoyed their long days there, untouched by the outside world, save for the few visits that were made to and from Lake Town in their trade.   
Until the days weeks before Smaug, when he had pursued Thorin and his Company down the river to the town, Legolas had never left the sheltered eves of the forest, and until then he had almost been glad of it. The world beyond the forest was full of far stranger things and even greater terrors than the great Spiders that plagued them; or the dark shadow of fear that came from the abandoned fortress of Dul Guldur. For the first time since his departure, he felt time truly begin to touch him, and he could feel himself moving through it, like a horse mired in the muck. He would have hated every second that he felt creeping over his skin, were it not for Kili.  
Legolas gave pause in an old empty cavern and smiled to himself warmly in the darkness. The youngest Heir of Durin had given light to a dark corner of himself that he had long ignored for boredom and lack of interest. He knew well that he was a beautiful creature, but beauty was something that was prepossessed by so many of his kin that it was hardly a commodity. Many a maiden had spent a lustful night with him under the stars, and more than a few men had shared his bed. But none of them had done more than distract him for a time.   
Kili was everything he had never expected, either from a dwarf or elf. He was brash and charming, crude yet strangely dignified, and with a fierce sense of honor and loyalty. Loyalty Legolas knew had been tested when he had chosen to follow them. But the prince would never wish to part his lover from his kin; for he had seen a tender bond between them that he himself had never a glimmer of with his own family. He had also known, even that first dark night within the dungeons when he had taken such risk to be with him, that this love between them would burn bright and swiftly like a candle. But it was the first time that this thought had ever caused him sorrow. He had known love, for perhaps the first time in all his long years of life. And love, the way that mortals love, is a burden and a joy that most immortal things like Elves can barely comprehend. To love something with such a brief life, even by Dwarf’s standards, was to invite terrible heart break. He understood this for the first time, after the battle, when he believed that Kili might be lost.   
As he continued to walk, very much lost in thought, he noticed a bit of snow upon the stone floor and felt the wind move his long flaxen hair. He took a deep breath, drinking in deep the air into his lungs and felt almost dizzy with it. But then his eyes moved towards the source of the wind, and found a strange crack in the wall. Legolas approached this opening with caution, for mountains kept many secrets in their dark depths; some that even the Dwarves might have forgotten or had yet to discover. Indeed this corridor looked ill visited in many long dark years. He fingered the knife in his belt as he peered into the snow gape.   
“Bilbo Baggins!”  
Were he anything but an Elf, he would not have seen the little Hobbit for the snow and the blinding wind, and he would not have seen the little Halfling clinging to the snowy ledge with frost bitten fingers as the wind threatened to sweep him down the side of the narrow path he had taken. Legolas did not give a further moment’s hesitation, for then the Hobbit gave a scream as his frozen hands gave way from the crumbling rock and he was suddenly plummeting from the cliff’s edge. The elf darted after him and managed to catch him by the front of his coat. But even his nimble legs couldn’t find a solid footing upon the icy ledge, and with great terror, Legolas realized they were both going over. He could have let Bilbo fall and saved himself, even if it was by the barest of chances, but instead he wrapped one arm fully around the hobbit and tucked him close to his body as they fell. With his other hand he unleashed his knife and used it’s blade to drive into the side of the mountain, hoping that it would catch or at the very least slow their deadly ascent. The knife did little accept loosen the heavy banks of wet snow and loose frozen rock from its perch however, and they continued downward, almost in free fall.  
The breath seemed crushed from Bilbo’s lungs and he could no longer make a sound as they fell, for the sound of the mountain top coming down around them had drown out all other noise. He then felt a great and powerful blow to his back and head that sent stars bursting in front of his eyes, and for a long time neither snow nor wind troubled him.  
They had come to land upon a jagged ridge, which was wide and strong enough to hold their weight as they descended upon it, and Legolas’ firm grip upon his body had kept him from being washed aside with the falling snow. Eventually there was no more sound, and even the winds hushed themselves for a time, and the snow fell lightly in the calm.   
The Elf had driven his dagger into the rock below them as he lay face down in the snow with Bilbo flung beneath him, his wind chapped face staring up into the starless sky. Neither moved.

***


	5. In the Viens of the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conspiracies are revealed, and Thorin and the others are forced to take flight to preserve themselves against mad Lord Dain's plot.

***   
Lights, seemingly beyond count, filled the cavernous depths of Erebor’s grand rooms again, and voices rose and fell in song and cheer, echoing to the rafters. Theirs was a blissful ignorance, the easy sleep of the unknowing and unprepared. Let the storm rage outside, let the outsiders stew in their own mess, it would not trouble them here in the halls of their forefathers, once again so rightly theirs. The Dwarves had been assured again and again of their place here, that Thorin and his ilk would make for them a new start here if they chose, or they could return to their homes in the Iron Hills. More importantly, those who had long been aimless and wandering among the hills and lands of men would again and at last know their place in the world; a place that was uniquely their own.  
They praised Thorin, Fili and Kili and the others for their bravery, and spoke of hope of their recovery. And for those who believed that a happy end could not be for the line of Durin, hope still shone out brightly, that a wise leader such as Dain would be there to step forward.   
But Dain was not touched by this hope. He had fallen swiftly and nearly silently into a shadow that he could no longer resist, though part of him wept and pleaded to. His thoughts that day were dark and weary, for he had spent a long sleepless hours after his talk with Bilbo Baggins. Though it would have been no hardship for him to have the Hobbit inadvertently kill himself trying to retrieve the stone, the idea that the Arkenstone may indeed be permanently lost filled him with a deep, hot, sickening dread. The glory of that stone, and the power that came with him had consumed him like a fire, and oh how he burned with the thought of it day and night. Perhaps he had erred in allowing its fate fall into the hands of a mere Hobbit.  
With all this swirling in his fevered and twisted mind, Dain retired to his bed chamber so that he would be rested for the festivities at hand. There was much toil yet to be done, and his darkest deeds had yet to be realized.  
As he entered the empty room however, he became aware of another presence within the fire lit room, one that seemed to know the treachery in his heart and mind. “Oh, Dain, son of Nain, how perilously you are perched upon the edge of the abyss.”  
The Dwarf Lord whirled in the direction of the sound and blinked in shock as the wizard seemed to materialize from the shadows thrown off by the fire. He drew his short sword in warning, the tip of the blade pointed at Gandalf’s heart. The old wizard looked at it with little care, for he did not fear Ironfoot and his little knife. “Will you kill me too, good sir? And to what will you contribute my death to, for I have not been wounded in battle and have no claim upon the throne which you seek.”  
“What witchery do you speak of?” Dain sputtered, even his dark beard quivering as he shook. “This is some spell of yours that calls me betrayer and murderer! Yes, you are to blame!”  
Gandalf chuckled lightly and shook his grey head. “You have been suspect to me, since the night your cousin regained consciousness. Most would have been relieved; but you were not. You were certain that he would die, and when he did not meet your expectations, your heart filled with jealousy.”  
Dain gawked at him, but Gandalf dismissed his shock; “It is not so difficult for a wizard to see in the hearts of men, or elves, or even Dwarves. I have come to recognize when darkness dwells there, when ill-will is bent towards another. Have you learned nothing from the fate of Thrain and Thror, and even dear Thorin? Have you not seen their folly and realized their mistakes? You were wise once, Ironfoot, a good and noble leader, interested only in the peace and prosperity of his people. You swore to protect them, just as you gave your oath that you would see Thorin through to the end. Is this how you would repay your promise?”  
Dain swung blindly at him and Gandalf managed to side step him, though the tip of his blade caught the edge of his robes and tore at them. “Thorin’s time is over! I care not for gold, nor jewels. It is the stone I desire. It has left him, don’t you see? It did not choose Thorin to be ruler, and so he must be done with!”  
“And Fili and Kili? What are their crimes?”  
“Mere children…what use have I for them?” He surprised Gandalf then by grabbing his battle axe from its propped place upon the wall and attempting to split him in two. The wizard was just fast enough to keep the blade from severing his skull, though his staff took the brunt of the blow and the wood cried out in his hands. As small sliver of blood spilt down the old man’s face as he was finally able to force Dain back, frightened by this sudden surge of strength he displayed, far exceeding even his own natural warrior talents.   
The wizard shouted something and vanished in a crash of light that made the Dwarf Lord fall upon his back, blinking in his blindness and bellowing for his guards. They swarmed his chambers a moment later, but Gandalf was quite gone. “My Lord, what happened?”  
“The wizard,” Dain sputtered as they helped him to his feet. “He is a betrayer. He means to kill the King and his kin; he’s placed their companions under his witchcraft. Do not trust them, for he is controlling them. Seek them out, and bring them to the cells for questioning.”  
“And what of the King, sir? Fili and Kili? Should they not be warned of this delvry?”   
“Yes, they will need protection. Find the boys and bring them here where they may be safe guarded, even if they protest. I shall go to the King myself.”

*** 

Thorin woke again with a terrible start, cold sweat beading his face and neck. He lifted his head from the pillow and stared around, groping for a hand to hold, but there was no one there. From his place upon the bed, he could hear a sound that was strange to his ears; music and revelry. He recalled Fili’s words, and realized this must be the feast of which he had spoke. The idea of it caused Thorin to scowl darkly, and he bellowed into the empty room. “Dain! Fili! Kili! Gandalf, you old nescience! Where are you?”  
But there came no answer, and he realized he had been left very much on his own. This troubled him, not only for his own sake, but in the sense that it made him realize that those closest to him were nowhere to be found. He took a heavy breath and braced himself for what would come next. With no small amount of effort, the wounded King pulled himself from his bed, his entire body screaming with each small movement of torn and scarred muscle and fumbled to a standing position, leaning heavily upon Bilbo’s chair. “Kili! Balin! Dwalin! Anyone!?”   
Still no one gave him an answer. Sweating heavily he looked out across the floor, trying to gauge how many steps until he reached the door. Compared to the hundreds of miles he come on his journeys, these few steps seemed nearly insurmountable. But something had disturbed him from a sound slumber, and that unnamed fear stabbed at him far worse than any sword wound. Why hadn’t Bilbo come back, and where were his nephews? Where were his friends and dear ones? The laughter and music from afar seemed to mock him.  
Each step felt like a mile, and more than once he had to pause and gather himself, but eventually Thorin made it to the doorway and from there into the corridor. The pain was fading as his adrenaline was rising, and soon his steps were more hurried, and though he felt needles within his chest and tasted blood at the back of his throat, he would not let that deter him in his quest. He came to hallway which swept downward into a great stairwell which opened unto one of the great rooms. Here at last he found some of his kinsmen, thought their faces were not as familiar as he would have liked. Where was Balin, Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, or Oin, or Gloin? These faces were strange to him.  
He opened his mouth to hark unto them, but found his words smothered out by a hand that suddenly clasped itself over his mouth, while another stronger arm wrapped itself around his chest and lifted him. Thorin fought as best he could, but simply wasn’t strong enough to fend off his captor. He was swept off into the dark, beneath the shadow of a great statue and lowered to the floor where he lay cursing and rasping for several seconds. “Forgive me, lad, did I hurt ye?” he recognized the heavy accent and deep tones of Dwalin and felt both anger and relief come over him. He struck out at the man with none of his usual strength and grit his teeth as he barked; “You slacked jawed son of an Orc! What do you mean by--!” But Dwalin hushed him again, and this time he was glad of the quiet for he felt so ill that he could not open his eyes and look at anything for several seconds.   
When his head began to clear, Dwalin was all but lying on top of him, cloaked in dark shadow as a line of men passed them, all talking amongst themselves, heavy with the smell of ale and mead. Thorin did not question these strange circumstances, for he couldn’t have lifted himself up under his own power then if he had tried. Only when the voices had died away and the light from their lanterns faded around the corner did Dwalin get to his feet, taking Thorin with him in one easy swoop of his strong arms. The King muttered at him under his breath, for this action made him feel distinctly as though he were but a young dwarfling again in the court of his father and grandfather. “This way, my brother is waiting for us.”  
He darted down a forgotten passage that was completely dark, yet somehow his feet knew their way about, and carried Thorin down into its spiraling depths until they reached a circular room filled with dusty old ledgers and tomes, and a table and chairs Here sat Balin, Ori, and Dori, as well as Gloin and Gandalf.  
“Oh thank heaven!” Balin gasped upon seeing Thorin and stood with open arms to help his brother set the injured King upon a chair. “I had feared we wouldn’t reach you in time!” Balin hugged him hard, much to Thorin’s surprise. Balin was one of his oldest and dearest companions, but he was a sensible Dwarf and did not give into emotions easily. “I had feared we would be too late to reach you. It’s already begun, I imagine.”  
“What are you talking about?” Thorin asked, blinking around at all of them. It was then that he noticed that Balin looked bruised and mussed, and that the wizard, who was silent for the moment, smoking his pipe, looked as though he had just taken a tussle with a troll or two. Ori was hugging his journal to him, pale faced and sick looking with Dori hovering over him like a mother hen, nervous and fidgeting, and Dwalin and Gloin both were both snarling and uneasy, ready for a fight. “What has happened?”  
“It’s your cousin, Dain,” the wizard spoke then, the embers within his pipe glowing bright red and gold in the dark, secret room. “A sickness had grown within him. The madness of Thror, and of Thrain, and briefly of you; Thorin, now resides within his mind. He means to take the throne of Erebor for his own. And, I rather fear, to kill you and your nephews.”  
Thorin’s first instinct was disbelief, even insult, but the looks on his friends faces told him that Gandalf’s words were not unfounded. “How came you to know this?”  
Gandalf smiled, and the dwarf could see that his head had taken injury and that dried, rusty crimson lingered among the grey tresses that framed his aged face. “He told me so himself.”  
A sickness came over him then that Thorin couldn’t hide and he bellowed with dismay and rage. He tried to stand, to charge at something, but was pushed back down upon his seat by Dwalin and Gloin’s strong arms.   
“It was Ori, in truth, who first learned of the plot. I was only the first to confront it.” Gandalf said then, once Thorin had been quieted. He nodded to the young dwarf; “Go on Ori, tell them.”  
The bowl-haired dwarf stared down at his journal, and his fingers shook. “I was asleep, actually, when it happened. It was the night you first woke up, Thorin. I was looking after Fili and I grew so tired…oh if I had only been more watchful!”  
“Shh, Ori, go on with the story,” Dori, ever the gentle heart, spoke. Ori took a breath and began again; “Dain came into the room. I thought it was a dream, but…he tried to smother Fili. But I woke up then, and Fili was kicking and fighting and making such a fuss, it must have spooked him. At first I didn’t believe it, I thought it was all in my head. But then I heard him talking to Bilbo tonight, and…” His eyes dropped again and he seemed too afraid to go on, so the wizard continued in his stead.  
“It seemed that Dain had put our young hobbit under the impression that the Arkenstone of Thror could heal your wounds if its secrets could be unlocked. Now, as I had never heard of such a power being attributed to the stone, I took quite an interest in it when I found Ori trying to a passage on it in the great library.  
‘I had guessed for the last few days however, that something was amiss with Dain, and I feared the Dragon Spell had overcome him. So, I went to speak with him myself,”  
“And what did he divulge?” Thorin asked slowly.  
“He claimed that I had come as a conspirator among you, to take the gold and the stone for myself. I tried to ask him what he thought a solitary wizard would want with such things, but he only gave reply with his axe.” Gandalf pointed to the deep gauge within the wood of his staff. “He believes that I have vanished, but he will not rest easy now. He has put it to young Mr. Baggins to go and fetch back what he traded to the Men in order procure aid for your war. Whether he expects that Bilbo will actually return with the stone or be killed trying to retrieve it, I am uncertain. All that I can be sure of is that he will not wait to see if you will succumb to your wounds, he will make sure that you do, and Fili and Kili as well. I believe he intends to use the feast as a means to have you poisoned or worse.”  
“Aye,” Balin nodded,“ it’s true I’m afraid. I was in my rooms here with Dwalin and Ori when the guard came, calling us conspirators and thieves. Theives indeed!” he snorted, bitterly angry. “But, there’s naught to be done for it, they are loyal to Dain, and perhaps under the spell themselves. And those who aren’t won’t know the difference soon.”  
“Where is Bilbo? Where are Fili and Kili?” Thorin gasped, fear rising in him like the tide. “Bofur and the others are still out there, I’ve left word with my brother to bring the lads here and to let no one see them. They’ll find Mr. Baggins as well.” Gloin assured.  
But Thorin could not be satisfied with this. He stood again, this time even against Dwalin’s restraint. “We must search, now, everywhere!”  
“Are ye daft? Ye can barely walk, much less search all the halls of the palace. We’d be lost and separated in no time, but you’d lie down and bleed to death before you reached the second hall, ye beast.” Dwalin scolded him.  
“I don’t care! They’re out there, alone, against this mad man! I must do something!”  
“We must find a way to move about in secret, unnoticed. I was hoping that the King Under the Mountain might know of a way?” Gandalf inquired hopefully. Thorin tried to clear his mind and push down his panic, not daring to picture what might happen to Bilbo, should he try to scale the mountain alone, or to Fili and Kili if they were caught alone and unaware. His thoughts went back to the days of his youth, and of the labyrinth of tunnels that lay within the great stone fortress that he used to play in as a boy. Only one he had ever discovered lead outside the mountain, to a secret road that used to be used by the miners that lead down into the forested foothills, but it had suffered a cave in, the way was deemed unsafe after that.  
He stood and looked around the room at its volumes of books and began to dig through them, hoping that he would stumble upon any of the old maps. That was when Ori spoke again; “Could this be of any use?” He held out his ledger and showed to them the intricate drawings he had made of palace from these very maps. Thorin beamed and hugged the young scribe tightly around the neck, kissing his cheek hard; “Today my dear friend, you are the most clever dwarf that ever lived!”  
They spread the parchment out upon the table under the pale candle light, and Thorin squinted over the narrow ink drawings, hoping that memory wouldn’t fail him. Luckily, Ori was meticulous, and had included every passage, every name an every ink stroke that he could in an effort for posterity.   
“Here,” he said at last, “at this western passage that passes beneath the great hall and the kitchens. There is an entrance in my brother’s old rooms, on the third level if I recall. But that is some distance from here, and surely we will cross paths along the way.”  
“So long as it is not Dain’s or those directly beneath him, I think we could still pass unmolested. Surely not all our brother dwarves can be conspiring for your death, you are King!” Gloin said then.  
“Yes,” sighed Thorin, “but Dain has been their master far longer than I.” He grew weary in body again and wavered upon his feet, but Balin steadied him. “At the very least, the boys have each other. But Bilbo will be alone, and if he has tried to leave…” he would not speak any more of it, but instead forgot his weakness and grabbed a torch from the wall, “We must hurry.”

*** 

Kili woke up with a sigh, stretching what muscles he could and making a sound that was akin to a cat purring. His nakedness was still evident, for the thin blanket he had pulled over himself while he had slept by the fireplace did little to conceal him. His hair was tussled and he still had the faint smell of sweat and sex on his skin, which was warm and flushed. He grinned sleepily, rolling over in an attempt to curl his body around his partner’s and feel his silky smooth luminous flesh beneath his hand again, but he quickly came to realize that Legolas was not beside him.  
He sat up with a pained grunt and looked around the room, but it was empty, and the elf’s clothing was gone, leaving only his quiver and bow. “That’s odd,” he muttered to himself as he lifted himself from the bed and pulled on his clothing at an achingly slow pace, for his wounds still sang with the ache and tenderness of torn flesh and muscle, and he was ever grateful for what healing his lover and the wizard had provided him. “Why is it every time I look away from that nymph, he vanishes into thin air? I beginning to wonder if he isn’t an elf or a figment of my imagination. If so…I’ve a very dirty imagination.” He laughed at himself then and hobbled towards the door, “Legolas? You naughty little fox, where have you gotten off to? You’re supposed to be catering to my every whim!” he called teasingly. But as he poked his head out of the doorway he quickly lost his humor.  
Looking down the corridor he saw his brother surrounded by three other Dwarves, all heavier, older and stronger than him. They seemed to be in some sort of argument, for voices were raised and Fili looked quite distressed.  
One of the other dwarves grabbed at his arm then, and Fili tried to wrestle away but could not break his grip. “I won’t go! I won’t go, I tell you, release me! I demand to see my uncle, let me go!”  
“Quiet, or I’ll quiet you myself!” another of the Dwarves rumbled and clouted him roughly about the head, enough that Fili stumbled and nearly fell. This made Kili see red. In a moment he was running and with a roar he leapt upon the back of the dwarf holding his brother, wrapping around him like pouncing mountain lion; “Let go of my brother!!” he bellowed, scratching at the man’s eyes and face and making him give a terrible yowl.  
Fili stumbled for a moment, and then kicked out viciously at the man next to him, tripping him and causing him to go rolling like a barrel down the staircase.   
“Stop resisting, this is for your own good!”  
“I highly doubt that!”  
Kili yelped like a kick dog as he was finally wrestled off the assaulting dwarf’s back and flung to the floor, where his broken leg sang with fiery splinters of agony. Unable to stand, he swung his fist at the man and caught him in the nose, but though blood smeared his face, he was not deterred in trying to drag the injured youth up and bind him. “Don’t make me hurt you, boy!”  
There then came the loud gong of iron ringing against bone, and the dwarf fell aside to reveal Bofur standing behind him with the handle of a cast iron skillet clutched in both hands. “Get your bloody mits off ‘em ye great bearded twit!”  
“Bofur!” the brothers cheered at the sight of their friend, The braided dwarf bent to lift Kili while Bombur helped Fili and Bifur, who had come to join them stood with his axe at the ready, should anyone else think it wise to start a brawl with them.  
“Getting into trouble again, eh, lads?”  
“It wasn’t us! They were after Fili and then I…well, I jumped in.” Kili explained and his brother nodded gratefully to him. “They said they were taking us to Dain, that we needed to be protected.”  
Bofur kicked the unconscious dwarf upon the floor, “Looks like they don’t know you very well. But protected from what, I wonder?”  
“Oy! Lads! Up here!”   
The lot of them peered up from the top of the stair case to see the overhanging flight above, only to find Oin and Nori racing towards them with six or seven heavily armed soldiers hot on their tracks.  
“What in the name of Durin’s beard?!”  
“Well, don’t just stand there!” Oin shouted down, “How about a hand up here!”   
The two groups found themselves colliding then as the two fleeing dwarves converged on them from above. Bifur and Bombur stood in front, one baring his axe while Bombur only needed to give a great thrust of his enormous belly to knock several of the attacking men aside, causing several to spill over the railing and go falling to the floor below.  
“Traitors! Oath breakers!” some bellowed at them, much to their confusion. “Get the young ones away before they kill them!”  
“Have ye all gone stark raving mad?!” Bofur bellowed back at them, taking another great swat at the attacking fighters with both frying pan and hammer. “You’re the ones that are trying to do them harm!”  
“Take them alive! Dain wants them for questioning!”  
“Dain?”  
It became clear to Bofur first what foul thing was stirring in the air, and he turned on heel, grabbing Kili up and flinging him over his shoulder, much to the young Dwarf’s surprise and dismay. “This way lads! Keep up!”  
Bifur did the same with Fili and the lot went barreling down the corridors, barely staying ahead of the growing throng that was pursuing them. Kili beat roughly upon Bofur’s back; “Put me down! Put me down, damn you! We need to find Legolas!”  
“The elf can look after himself! We need to get to your uncle!”  
“What, why?!”  
“They’ll be after him next!”

*** 

Bilbo remembered the icy burn of the wind on his face and the sound of it rushing in his ears and the vague memory of a shout in the blindness and an arm close around him. It was a strange dream, and as he came to himself again he was pleased to think that it was just that, for he was warm and bundled in blankets with the smell of a fire and the pleasant sound of a kettle rattling with hot tea.  
For a moment, he almost thought that he were home again, back in Bag End in his own bed with the sound of his own kettle whistling on the hearth. But one bleary look around proved very much otherwise. Bilbo did not recognize his surroundings at all, either as that of his long lost Hobbit hole or that of the great halls of Erebor.  
Instead he seemed to be in some sort of earthen cave, with a low ceiling of thick gnarled tree roots and frozen earth above his head, and only a little lantern to light the dark place. Faintly he heard the sound of the wind blowing, and looked to see that it had been shut out of the tunnel by a crude wooden door and a bit of leather skin that flapped faintly in the draft. Bilbo was lying on a bedroll on the smooth dirt floor, tucked under many old woolen blankets and animal skins for warmth. He sat up with a start, yelping faintly at the pain that sang through his back, shoulders, neck and legs as he did so, and caught the attention of an unlikely visitor.  
He recognized him, though only dimly in the light, by his dark hair and local garb. Bard the Bowman squatted in front of the fire, carefully removing the bright copper kettle from its place over the flames. He poured the hot water into a stone basin and watched it steam, and then he gave a glance to the watching Hobbit. “Well, you are not frozen after all, my dear Mr. Baggins.”  
“What is this place?”  
“A shelter, carved out a few years ago by myself and other hunters who frequent the woods here. The mountain can surprise you with all kinds of weather, and we learned to be ready for it, least we be trapped out here and freeze. You should be glad of it, if I do say so.”  
“I am,” Bilbo nodded, still not quite comprehending. “But…I was on the mountain…the top of it, that is. How did I come to the bottom then?”  
“Upon my back little Hobbit. And you were not quite at the top. Four miles up, actually. Oh far more than enough to kill you should you fall or slide, and absolutely high enough to freeze in the wind and snow and thin air, but still not quite the top. Only the eagles venture there.”  
“Did you save me?”  
“In a manner, I suppose. But I really think that you have this fellow to thank as well. There wouldn’t have been much to save, were it not for him.” He gestured then to the form stretched on the other bedroll. “Legolas!” Bilbo found himself up and stumbling on his feet and falling on hands and knees next to the prostrate form of the Elf who had become his friend. “Oh heaven, he caught me! He saw me on the ledge and he tried to pull me back, but the ice…! Oh no, what have I done, oh forgive me my friend, I am no good to anyone!”  
The elf stirred and there was a small smile upon his lips as he looked up into Bilbo’s weeping face. “Why do you weep so, little one? I am alright.”  
“Funny thing, Elves. They somehow manage to survive the damnest things. Like being half buried under an avalanche.” And the bow man smiled at Legolas in a way that Bilbo had seen only one other smile at him. The Prince pushed himself up warily, for he had not survived the fall completely unscathed. It would seem he had injured his arm while trying to hold onto the knife and as he bent it he winced. “It’s more of an inconvenience I suppose, but it could have been so much worse.” He looked with his clear blue eyes to the Hobbit then, “What possessed you to do such a dangerous thing? Where were you going?”  
“Here,” Bilbo explained, looking quickly to Bard. “To find you, of all people.”  
“Well, I’m glad I made an impression.” The bowman chuckled at the halfling’s sour temper. Bilbo whimpered and hung his head again, rubbing his cold arms for warmth. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had quite a miserable turn. One after another it feels like. I’m positively sick with it.”  
Bard brought him closer to the fire and draped a heavy blanket around him as Legolas also moved to sit closer to the warmth and light. “I suppose you’d best start with the first bad turn then, eh?”  
The two of them listened while Bilbo divulged what he had learned from Dain, and the plan he had concocted to go down the mountain under the cover of the storm and find Bard in hopes of retrieving the stone with promises of his own share of the vast fortune of Erebor as repayment.  
“It feels to me as if Lord Dain has been false to you, Bilbo. How I wish you had come to me or one of the others before attempting such a thing.” Legolas said, “He has been prying upon your feelings for Thorin. The Arkenstone possess no magic that I have ever heard of.”  
“Well perhaps only Dwarves know of it,” Bilbo suggested, feeling stupid and ashamed of himself indeed for not seeking help in the matter. Why had he thought he could do this all alone?  
“It’s possible, but I agree with Legolas.” He paused then and looked to the Prince. “If it is true, however, it might explain why your father lied about possessing it, and even seemed reluctant of the idea of giving it up if he had.”  
The elf narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you know of my father? How dare you accuse him of deceit!”  
“I know more than you, perhaps, my prince,” the Man said as he packed his pipe and lit it with a wave of his match and inhaled deeply before releasing a fragrant puff of smoke. “I am on errand from him, to retrieve you from your supposed captors in the mountain.”  
Both Bilbo and Legolas gawked at this. “My father sent you? But I was never a prisoner, I went of my own will! Kili might have been dying and I…” he fell silent and Bilbo thought he saw a shadow of guilt cross his face, for Elves experience many of these mortal emotions only in shades, as so many seemed to have forgotten the use and meaning of them.  
Bilbo turned his head towards Bard again, almost scowling; “So you were trying to sneak into the mountain then, eh? And how would you have gotten passed all those Dwarves I wonder? Would you have fought them when they found you skulking about like some sneak in the dark?” He thought again of the creature that called itself Gollum on their misadventure in the Misty Mountains and his mood soured further.   
“Well, you were able to sneak in under the nose of ol’ Smaug. What’s a few thousand Dwarves compared to that beast?” Bard smiled, but neither of his guests found his comment humorous.  
“And what if you had found me and I refused?”  
“I would have taken you anyway.”  
“By force?”  
“If necessary.” The light of his eyes danced in the fire’s gleam and Legolas felt the hidden meaning in his words and sat rigidly, glaring at the hunter. “You would have tried, and you would have failed.”  
“Perhaps.”  
Bilbo seemed oblivious to the strangely sexual tension that was passing between the two archers, and even if he did understand, he was far too tired and too worried and too cold to care. He stood up then, trying to look imposing. “Then, friend Bard, it seems we both had have stated our terms. Whether Dain has lied to me or not, I will not risk the lives of those I love by dismissing them. If I am wrong, then I have lost nothing.”  
Bard admired the Hobbit thoughtfully for a few moments, “Alright, little one, I shall return to you the stone. But my price has gone up.”  
“I will give you the gold and jewels that are mine to claim, that I promise you. Thorin is not as hard as he was before, the spell over him is broken! I’m sure that he will help however he can.”  
“Not jewels,” Bard said turning his eyes once more on the Elf, “silver, perhaps.”  
The Elf sneered coldly, “I am no precious gem to be bartered over, you foul smelling—“ but Bard silenced him with a tap of his hand on his cheek and said; “It’s not my price, precious, it’s your father’s. Either I return with you, or he will leave our village to dry up and rot.”  
“That’s completely unreasonable!”  
“But not unlike the King,” Bilbo found himself musing outloud and he had to bare the disappointed sting of Legolas’ eyes as result. The Elf rose, as much as he could in the earthen tunnel, looking resolute. “I will go and speak with him, and perhaps then he shall come to the mountain with me, for if Dain has deceived you as I fear, it can mean nothing but ill tidings for our friends.”  
This was the first time this idea fully entered Bilbo’s mind and his stomach turned over bitterly, “What if they are in danger? You do not think…you do not think he would try to harm them, do you?”  
“I cannot say,” Legolas replied, shaking his head, but he felt the Hobbit’s terror, “but I would leave nothing to chance in these uncertain times.”  
Bilbo huddled in on himself as he sat in front of the fire, feeling miserable and lost and wishing for the protection and safety of Thorin’s arms again. He wished with all his might to be back in his Hobbit Hole, with the dwarf by his side, having breakfast in bed, safe and sound and far away from war and violence and threats of conspiracy. He wished for it so hard he thought his heart might burst for wanting it.  
“All I wanted was to help him,” he whimpered, head in hand. “That’s all I ever wanted.”  
Bard had moved to the door and looked out across the white landscape; “The snow has slowed; we should cross the lake while there is still light. Come on.”

***


	6. King in Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Dain confront each other in the halls of their fathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter, mainly because so much is happening I wanted to take one event at time so everyone's head does not explode.
> 
> Also, all these strange ships that are cropping up in mention in this fic...I don't understand it and I'm not trying to. This thing has a life of it's own and it has totally consumed me. And yes, I am totally hinting at not only a triangle between Kili/Legolas/Bard but also, for no reason I can think of, am shipping Thrian and young Balin. I DON'T KNOW WHY!! 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the lovely feedback it has really been a treat hearing from you! :D

*** 

Somewhere above them, they could still hear the sound of music still filled the upper halls, echoing eerily in the dark passages that curved low and ragged above their heads. The air within them was dank and stale, stagnant with the long years of disuse, and now only spiders, rats, and other manner of unpleasant creepy crawling things of the earth moved through them. Thorin, supported by Balin, lead the huddled group through the dark labyrinth, guided by the soft glowing light of Gandalf’s staff just behind them. Their steps were uneven and unsure, hastened by their great need but slowed by their uncertainty.   
“Your grandfather set down these tunnels,” Balin explained as they walked, “As a means of escape if ever we should be invaded by Goblins. It was through these many of our kin were able to flee Smaug, but others became lost within the tunnels.”  
“I used to play here as a child with my brother and sister,” Thorin noted, touching the old dust laden cracks upon the wall and remembering how they had looked so much larger to him as a child. “I would often be lost, and Dis would have to come and fetch me back. My father always scolded us afterwards.”  
Balin smiled a little, “Well, that is because your father and I used to hold meeting here in secret, and he would have been terribly cross if you had come toddling along with your siblings to interrupt. You almost did once. I heard you crying in the dark. You said you’d had a bad dream.”  
Thorin blinked at him in curious confusion, and the twinkle in old Balin’s eyes told him not to ask any more on the subject for now. “I still feel as if I am having a bad dream,” Thorin muttered, for he was weary and pained and heart sick, but he would have gone forever it brought him safely to Fili and Kili and Bilbo.  
“There is a trap door here somewhere above this passage,” Balin mused before turning to Ori, who was holding the map as he hurried along beside Gandalf’s light. The wizard squinted as he stooped even further to have a better look at their location. “Yes…there does seem to be a divergence somewhere to the right of here. What say you, Ori?”  
The young dwarf nodded eagerly. “Yes, here, there was mark just below the wine cellars. We’d be safest coming up there to look for the others, in my opinion.” He added the last bit more softly, for he was never a very prideful or assertive dwarf.   
“I agree,” Gandalf said clearing his throat, “I shall go up first. Too long in these tunnels and I shall never be fully upright again!” 

The door was located to the right, just above a stone ladder. Gandalf tested the door with a tap of his staff, first to see if anyone were above them, then to see if the aged warped wood would budge after all this time. It had little give, and when the wizard pressed upon it with his hand he found that it was quite weighty. “Something is sitting on it.”  
Dwalin moved forward then and gave a push upon it with both hands. Whatever was above them swayed a little and allowed a crack of light into the dark tunnel below. He peered around, his eyes but small round slits through the crack in the floor. They were indeed in the cellar, and what was sitting above them was a large wine keg. They listened for sounds within the room, and heard plenty of voices, but they seemed farther off. The big dwarf gave another heave of his hands and the barrel tipped and rolled free with a thump and a crack and rush of sweet red liquid that seeped through the cracks in the stone floor and dripped upon their heads.   
Sputtering and spitting the group came up the steps, hand over hand, until the lot of them were in plain sight in the middle of the cellar. They strove to remain as quiet as they could, hear voices just beyond the doorway, but the sound of the breaking barrel had alerted the others, and two more dwarves, both with bright golden blonde beards and long hooked noses, came to see what the trouble was.  
The two groups stood staring at each other for a moment in stunned silence, but Gandalf gave a wave of his staff and another blinding flash filled the room, and when the two dwarves looked around they found themselves staring at nothing but a floor covered in spilled elderberry wine.  
“Can’t you make us invisible or something?” Gloin gruffed at the wizard as they trotted down the halls, hesitating at every corner and bend for fear of being seen. “What good is all your magic if it can’t do something as simple as make a dwarf disappear?”  
“I can think of far more effective ways to do that,” Gandalf replied irritably, “I could turn you all into wind if I chose, or into seven notes of music! But it does not suit my purposes.”  
“And what purpose is that?” Ori gulped, very much disturbed at the idea of being turned into music,  
Before Gandalf could reply they heard a cry from above them and found themselves spilling out into one of the great circular halls upon which several stair cases converged. Racing towards them was the rest of their party, along with Fili and Kili, who were being followed by an angry group of Dain’s guards. They all seemed to spot Thorin and the others at once.  
“Thorin, run! They’ve all gone mad!”  
“Have they?” Thorin bristled like an angry dog and plucked one of the battle axes from Dwalin’s belt, brandishing it at the approaching guard. “Then let them come, and we’ll see who’s mad then!”  
The rest of the company came to circle around their friends as more and more of Dain’s men came closing in from all directions and on lookers gathered to see what the terrible commotion was.   
“King Thorin, stand aside! These men are traitors to you and your nephews, they—“  
“Hold your poisoned tongues!” Thorin barked at them, his dark blue eyes blazing in his fury. “The only traitors I see before me are you who surround us! These are my companions, more loyal and honorable than all of your armies, all of your ilk! I would choose but a handful of them over the whole of your kingdom! So speak truth to me now! Where is the coiled viper who has set you upon me? Where is Dain! I demand to speak with him!”  
“Consider your demands met,” a voice answered and from the top of the highest most stair the war lord made himself known, and it sickened them to see that he was adorned in the robes of the king and laden with heavy jewels and finery. But greatest insult, perhaps was that he wore upon his head of coal-colored hair the crown of Thrain.   
“Why this hostility, cousin? You are not well, you have forgotten whom your friends are.”  
“Viper! You are no friend to me! What lies have you spread among these people?” He stared then as Dain drew closer, though the others huddled around him in a protective circle. He could see on the man’s finger the ring of his grandfather, and it shocked and enraged him, but he slowly began to understand. “It was never the gold…” he found himself muttering, “it was the ring itself. That damn ring…” He moved forward then, a bit less aggressively for he had lowered his weapon, and his face was more of fear than of anger now; “Dain, the ring is cursed! Take it off, now, and come to your senses before it consumes you too!”  
Ironfoot blinked at him in confusion and then looked down upon the silver and obsidian band upon his old finger. For a moment he looked thoughtful, but it passed and he smirked at Thorin. “Trying to trick me? No, I think not, cousin. These people need not lies to show them who their true master is. You lead them to death and ruin, I have lead them to prosperity and peace! Here, under the mountain, we will take our rightful place. And you and your cursed kin will be but a bad memory.”  
“Listen to me!” Oakenshield bellowed at him. “the madness that overtook me has ensnared you. When you took the ring from me, you freed me from its influence. I see now, the terribly folly of my actions. If you would punish me, I would accept. But I will not allow you to murder my family. And you will never sit upon my throne as long as I or they live.”  
“So be it.”  
He raised his battle axe to strike Thorin, who countered the attack with a yell, for his wounds screamed and he was unsteady upon his feet. Still he was strong in his rage and he managed to throw Dain backwards, sending him sprawling back at the feet of his men. “He’s bewitched by the wizard! Traitors all! Kill them, kill them!”  
But the other dwarves were not as eager to follow their lord’s orders this time, for they hesitated at the thought of killing one of their kindred, much less the King Under the Mountain. “What are you waiting for?!” Dain bellowed.  
An archer from above loosed an arrow, and it was only by Fili’s quick hand that he raised his sword and used its broad blade to hinder it from finding its resting place in Thorin’s heart. Kili loosed his own shot, striking the offending archer in the hand. “Don’t you touch him!” he snarled at them.   
“See! They cannot be trusted! Take them, now!” Dain bellowed, and his men had little choice but to follow, though they hoped to subdue the small group without killing them. Gandalf, however, saw that they stood no chance.   
“Together! Everyone!”  
“What?”  
“Together!”  
He huddled them all close around him and bade them take hold of one another without explanation, then raised his staff with a few strange words and brought it down hard upon the floor. It cracked beneath them, splintering like an eggshell. And then suddenly they were all dropping fast, like a stone into water, with what seemed as little hope of rising again. They screamed as they fell, watching the halls of Erebor fade away into the darkness as arrows and spears tried to follow them but faded into the rushing blackness.   
They waited to meet an abrupt death, dashed upon the far forgotten pit below them in the roots of the mountain, but it never came. Instead as they descended into the abyss, they were greeted only by the sharp clap and rush of water engulfing them.  
They sank and then came up sputtering and coughing as one by one from the stream and let them lay breathless upon the bank for a time.   
They had fallen a great distance, down through the great rock into the roots of the mountain where the springs grew and the waters flowed cold and clear out into Long Lake. It was not the path that they would have chosen, but thus are many things in life.   
The wizard himself almost seemed to wonder at their survival, for he had gambled on how far the drop was. But he could not risk them all being caught again, for in the back of his mind was a growing fear shared by all. Where was Bilbo?  
The Dwarves groaned and spat and tried to lift and dry themselves, though many were too stunned to do much more than lie there like salmon beaten upon the rocks. “Bombur! Bombur you’re crushing me!” Ori wailed in the dark, and it took the efforts of both Bofur and his cousin Bifur to remove their bulbous friend from poor squashed Ori. “So sorry,” Bombur offered, though he was water logged and dizzy, for he had swallowed a great deal of water, and thought maybe that he had even accidently swallowed a small school of tiny fish by mistake.  
Bofur rung out his hat and his braids, clapping the side of his head with his hand in an attempt to remove the water from his ears, “Now that was a proper exit, I’ll tell you! Though I would have preferred a softer landing spot,” he said looking to Gandalf, who looked a bit weary himself.  
“You’re welcome,” the old man muttered back and bent his head for a moment as if trying to catch his breath.   
Kili lifted his head, his hair sopping wet and hanging in his eyes, giving him the appearance of a drowned rat as he coughed and groped about for Thorin and Fili. “Uncle? Uncle!?”   
“I am here,” Thorin’s voice drifted back, weak and alarmed. Kili crawled to him and fell upon his chest with pure exhaustion, seeming to laugh and cry all at once. “Are you alright?” he asked.  
“I am…broken, but alive. I do not think I can move just now. Be still for a moment.” Kili nodded, happy to oblige for his leg was screaming at all this jostling and jarring while the rest of him was cold and numb. His eyes roamed the shore, adjusting to the dark as he looked for his brother.   
Fili was crawling out of the water, looking if anything like a soaked cat. He shivered from head to toe and sneezed loudly. “If I never have to soak in water again, I shall die a happy man.” He spat.  
“Well, that might keep the girls away.” Kili chuckled tiredly and then closed his eyes for a moment as he laid upon Thorin’s still body and extended a hand for Fili to take. The two lay next to their uncle and for a time did not move or speak at all.  
Dwalin came out of the water, snorting like a great boar, and his brother waddled beside him, trying to shake all of the water out of his trousers and under things. His beard was so wet that it was dropping to almost between his legs, nearly tripping him. They surveyed their company, and when all were accounted for, they sat down upon the bank to rest.   
Bofur blinked up through the dim haze of the underground fissure they had fallen into and could see far above them a circular dot of light, indicating the halls of the palace far above them. He whistled, “That was quite a drop! And look there, do you see? Some of the old pulleys remain. I guess this must have been a water source at one time or another. Some of the buckets even look intact.”  
“Aye, I can see a staircase now too over yonder,” Oin noted with snort and a sniffle. “Wish we had known about that.”  
“All we can hope for now is that Dain doesn’t,” the dual braided dwarf amended but he shook his head. Dain would come after them now, he was certain. Thorin had humiliated him and given challenge in front of their people and that was not something that a proud dwarf like Dain Ironfoot would back down from easily. He wouldn’t rest now until he had Thorin’s head on a pike.   
“All this time it was that damn ring?” Balin mused, for he looked sick and weary at the thought. “Never the gold…the gold on aided it. I had read that the seven rings that had been passed down among the ancient dwarf lords in the old days were given great power. Never did I belief it was the source of their madness.” And he hung his head and nearly wept, and only his brother seemed to understand why and put an arm around the old Dwarf’s shoulder and shushed him. They all grew quiet after that, listening in the dark for sounds of an angry horde coming after them, but there was only the sound of the spring bubbling and flowing on its journey, untroubled by the affairs of Dwarves.  
After a time, Gandalf spoke again, “We will follow the spring to lake’s mouth. There will be ice the further we come to the outside, and we shall have to do our best to cross the thickest parts. If my guesses are correct, we should find ourselves standing on the icy shores of Long Lake in no time.  
“But how shall we cross?”  
“We shall have to go around I wager. The ice would be too treacherous.” 

***


	7. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Risking the frozen lake, Bard, Legolas and Bilbo find themselves set upon by a hungry pack of Wargs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexual situations, though none are explicit so luckily I don't have to change the rating. Many bitter sweet reunions take place, and Legolas finds himself facing a very painful choice.

*** 

However intended Hobbit feet were for trekking across soft grass and muddy country roads, and for even climbing rock and hill, they were clearly never intended for such purposes as treading across a frozen shore.  
The ice and snow burned Bilbo’s feet but he bore in all in silence with the cloak Bard had given him huddled tightly around his shoulders and the hood drawn low over his head to keep the wind from howling in his ears. He was only glad that they did not have to go far on foot. Bard had brought with a sled, pulled by four grey and snowy furred wolves that he had tamed and harnessed to it. It was made for light travel, carrying no more than two men at a time and a few pounds of supplies, plus whatever was killed in the hunt. For this reason Bard was very glad that no more than Bilbo and Legolas were with him. The Hobbit hardly weighed more than a small child, and the Elf could even follow alongside them upon the ice, for it did not affect him the way that it did mortals.  
“This will hasten us to town before night falls. Were it just I, I would have gone around in the trails, but there have been Wargs out these few nights, and they are starving and mad with the smell of blood and decay from the battles. I would not chance it with you, Halfling.”  
“I appreciate it.” Bilbo shivered, scuttling aboard the sled and hunkering down between two thick rolls of supplies and blankets and trying to hide his face from the wind. Legolas tucked him beneath another blanket and gave him an assuring smile before turning to Bard. “I will go with you for Bilbo’s sake, and for my father’s, not for yours. I still have not forgiven you from before.”  
“And what I did I do that was so offensive?” Bard asked, but he was already smiling, for he knew it well. “You think I would be so easily swayed from him, just because you have killed a dragon? I might have felled the beast myself.”  
“But you didn’t. And I never meant to come between you and the dwarf. I was only trying to be hospitable.”  
“Your form of hospitality may be the reason my father is so vexed with you.”  
“You’re quite right, perhaps he would have preferred if I had seduced you in his dungeons and threw you naked upon the floor—“  
“I’m FREEZING!” Bilbo shouted then, not wanting to hear any more of what he already knew. He thought of Kili like a nephew or a son of his own now, a friend at the very least, and the last thing he wanted to remember was that confusing night in the Elven King’s dungeons when all reason had quite gone out the window.  
Bard chuckled and shook the Hobbit’s shoulder as he stood upon the back of the sled and bade the Elf to come along, but Legolas shook his head and merely readied himself to run. With a yell and a crack of a whip, the dogs were off and the sled lurched forward across the icy threshold and soon they were gliding at great speed across the glacier of the lake.  
Bilbo ducked his head and pulled his knees in close to his chest to try to keep himself as warm as possible, but he could not resist looking ahead, though the cold dry air burned his eyes. It was such an amazing sight, traveling across the lake in this manner and seeing the warm glow of the village in the distance. Bard was right, they were racing the setting sun, which had turned the clouded sky a grey haze of purple, gold, pink and red above the shivering white mantles of snow upon the great ancient pines of the forest valley. Looking out on it now, Bilbo was sure he had never seen the sky look so big, or felt so small beneath its vastness, and his heart ached for Thorin again and he wrapped his arms around himself tighter. “I won’t be long, my love. I promise. Not much longer now.”  
The Elf ran easily beside them, and eyes searched the horizon for signs of his father’s boats or horses, but for the moment he could see none of these things. His mind was filled now with a new fear; what would he do when he was once again forced to choose between his father’s wishes and his own desires? Kili no longer lingered at death’s door, but he was far from out of danger, he couldn’t abandon him now.  
He was so focused upon these bleak and unhappy circumstances in fact, that he almost missed the shadow that flickered in the corner of his sight. He turned his head to the forest that ran but a few yards from them, At first he saw nothing but the deep blackness beneath the heavy pines, contrasted by the fallen snow. But then he saw the shimmering of red eyes like bright coals in the dark and the heavy movement of four-legged beasts tracking them.   
“Wargs!”  
Bilbo and Bard turned sharply to look at the shore just in time to see the pack emerging at the edge of the tree line. “Bard…” Bilbo gulped. “What do we do?”  
“Nothing,” the bowman answered, but his hand was already going for his bow and quiver. “I do not think they will attempt the ice. They are too heavy.”  
But he was proven wrong. This pack was in blood lust, for the smell of it was still heavy in the air, and they were game for fresh meat, however they could get it. They could see now that there were at least twelve in the hunting party and possibly more lingering further back among the trees. But the pack leader was already padding his way out upon the frozen water, and to Bard’s deep dismay, it held his massive muscular form.  
Foamy saliva dribbled from the beast’s jaws and its eyes glowed hellish red. It knew, perhaps, what it was looking at. Not just prey, but old enemies, for Wargs are fiercely more intelligent than the average wolf and a hundred times more wicked. They cackled together at their prey’s dismay as more and more of them tested their weight upon the frozen water approaching at a purposeful and swift gait.  
Legolas cursed in his native tongue, for he was unarmed save for his knives. “Bard, give me your bow and quiver!”  
The huntsman blinked at him, “Your hand is injured, you can’t--!”  
“Trust me! You must get Bilbo to the village, go! I will handle them!”  
“Don’t be a fool!”  
Legolas snarled in frustration and pulled the weapon from his back and swiftly took aim at one of the fast advancing scouts that threatened to pounce upon the sled. His wrist sang with pain, but he ignored it and loosed an arrow into the beast’s head which made it yelp before falling over dead upon the ice.  
This enraged the rest of the pack for now they all charged forward, heedless of the danger. Bilbo yelped in fear, but it was Bard’s cry that was the most frightening, for it was not of fear but of alarm. The Wargs had accomplished what he feared; their weight was causing the ice to crack beneath them.  
“Hang on, Hobbit!” he bellowed as he mushed the wolves on top speed, trusting in only his own sword to keep the advancing pack from leaping upon them. Legolas held his ground, felling two and then three and then four of the pack with his arrows. But the quiver was emptying all too quickly and as they feared more of the hunting party had gathered upon the banks and were tracking the fleeing sled across the outlying peninsulas of land that crept from the mountain, where they surely meant to make their attack if they tried to escape the ice.  
Where the Wargs had fallen, their bodies had sunk through, creating holes in which the water warmed and churned, causing more and more cracks that splintered out from its source like a broken eggshell, until the ice all around the elf was crumbling and he was forced to retreat further and further out into the depths of the water to escape it.  
The pack leader had avoided most of the Elf’s arrows and grew more brazen each time they missed him. He was so hungry for flesh, and his senses were heightened to madness by the potent scent of fear and fresh blood in the air. He coiled himself upon his great haunches and leapt, gaping jaws of razor sharp ragged teeth open, ready to devour.  
Legolas fired at him and caught him in his throat. The great beast yelped as it came crashing down, falling through the ice and knocking the Elf from his feet as the great upheaval of his body crashing into the water split the ice all around them.  
The ripple of it caused Bard’s sled to overturn, the wolves yelping and howling as they continued to try to pull it, though the weight caused them to trip and slide. Both man and Hobbit were tossed upon the frozen surface of the lake and went spinning and sliding in different directions.  
“Help! Oh, help!” Bilbo wailed as he tried in vain to slow his glide across the burning sheet of ice, but before he could even slow himself he was far from Bard and Legolas, stranded in the middle of the water. He lay there panting, terrified to move, and beneath him he could hear the pop and crackle of the ice like trees snapping and creaking in a high wind.  
He closed his eyes tightly and tried to slow his panicked breathing, trying to be calm and wait for help. But heard the low growling of the beasts as one of them attempted to advance towards him from one of the long fingers of frozen land that edged into the waterfront. He was still several yards from Bilbo, but that didn’t matter. Neither Bard nor Legolas had seen him and were preoccupied with their own battles.  
Bilbo’s numb and shaking hand reached for Sting and he tried to get to his feet, finding that he was only able to scramble onto all fours, staring at the creeping thing that meant to come and tear him asunder.

It was at that moment that Thorin and the others were making their way free from the bowels of the mountain.  
They winced at the light pouring in from outside, though it was growing soft and dim, it’s dying rays were dazzling upon the snow covered ground. They were still damp from their fall into the spring, and the cold air snapped and bit at them through their soaked clothing, but they kept onward anyway.   
A noise was growing, drawing them out. The sound of a hunt or a brawl, and the baying of beasts engaged in battle. Thorin was limping between his nephews, and the sound made him lift his weary head and peer across the horizon for some sign of battle.  
“I don’t like the sound of that at all,” Balin muttered as they came further and further out of the cavern, spilling out onto rocky soil and beds of pine needles beneath the thin and dark confiners that stretched above them. They followed the land down, and Gandalf looked worried as he lead them on, taking great strides though his damp robes weighed him down. “Those are not the cries of any ordinary wolves. Those are Warg cries.”   
They came spilling out onto a tiny island of land that stretched its roots far into the lake bed, and now as they came through the thinning trees they saw the horrific scene before them. Thorin stumbled forward, his eyes settling upon the smallest figure on the ice, farthest from the other combatants.   
“BILBO!”  
His voice thundered across them like the clap of a storm cloud and Bilbo looked up in surprise and saw him standing there at a distance. A smile crossed his lips and his heart lifted; he had hope again.  
The Warg behind Bilbo was drawing closer, and it’s weight upon the ice caused another shattering crack and pop. Bilbo felt it beneath his palms and knees, and before he could do anything, he looked up helplessly at Thorin and then was gone; swallowed up by the water.  
Thorin gawked for a moment, as did the rest of the watching company, and then suddenly he was surging forward at a run. “Thorin, no! No!” Fili and Kili tried to pull him back, but there was no stopping him. 

Below the surface, Bilbo kicked and swam with all his might, but he had drifted away from the hole and found the current of the lake sweeping him away, so that no matter how hard he fought for the surface he could not get any air and was met again and again by the solid frozen surface.  
He heard another disturbance in the water, just as he felt himself hopelessly sinking, too tired and cold to move. The light from the surface was fading quickly, unable to reach him as he sunk. He had almost given up, when a hand caught his in the blackness. It was strong and firm and it dragged him upwards. They broke through the ice again together, both gasping for air. Bilbo realized he was being upheld by someone’s arms. His vision swam and he felt like his eyelashes were freezing to his cheek, but things slowly came into focus and he found himself looking into the face of Thorin Oakenshield.   
His lover was speaking something to him, but all Bilbo could hear was the sound of rushing water, and he grew too tired and let his head drop back against Thorin’s arm and gave himself up to whatever fate would have him.

When Thorin had bolted for the ice, Kili came to realize for the first time who else was out upon the frozen water, fighting for his life. Legolas was growing steadily surrounded and he was down to his last few arrows. He looked on with panicked eyes and then turned to the wizard; “Help them!”  
“We need a distraction,” The wizard replied and turned his back to them, looking at the scraggly, dying pines at the water’s edge. With a great strike of his own sword he hewed the lowest dead limbs and set them ablaze with his staff as he had before when facing the Goblin Riders in the foothills of the Misty Mountains.  
The Dwarves were quick to aid him, throwing and kicking the burning limbs out onto ice where they shot forward like burning spears. The remaining Wargs howled at the sight of them, for they hated fire and went skidding and fleeing back towards the outer banks, giving up their dinner as a loss.  
The burning branches went out one by one as they disappeared through the melting sheets of ice, and Gandalf, with the help of Bofur, Bombur and Dwalin were able to fell one of the tall saplings from the shore, it’s roots still clinging to the frozen earth. With this acting as a bridge, Bofur, Kili, Fili and the wizard scrambled unto its trunk , and made their way out over the water to reach those stranded among the shifting ice.   
Legolas was helped upon the branch by his lover whom embraced him and kissed him passionately, all too shocked and relieved to have him there. The others moved on, hauling the crawling and groping Bard, upon the branch before they were at last able to reach Thorin and Bilbo, whom were simply fighting to stay above water. It took the efforts of both Gandalf and Bofur to pull them free, and neither dwarf or hobbit had any use of their limbs for a time and so had to be carried and drug back to land.  
Falling into the snowy bank, Thorin pushed them off him and rolled so that he was crouched over Bilbo, who was still and passive beneath him. Thorin closed his mouth over his and breathed life back into him, and after a bit Bilbo began to cough and sputter, blinking into consciousness. Thorin’s face was all he could make out in the soft fading light and although he was racked with shivers, Thorin smiled so brightly at him, “Don’t ever leave me again.”  
“I won’t,” Bilbo shivered and pulled the man down to kiss him again, wanting to be wrapped in him. Bifur took his coat, for he was mostly dry now and draped it over the two in an attempt to shelter them from the cold. As Gandalf was making sure that all were present and accounting for, smiling with no small sense of relief that Bilbo was alive and once again where he belonged, he heard the sound of approaching hooves that did not sound like horses.  
The company turned to see a great Elk trotting forward through the parting trees, which seem to bend and twist to allow it passage. Upon it’s back, the Elven King looked down upon them, and his fair face was a mask of concern and consternation.  
“Ada!” Legolas gasped, lifting himself from Kili’s arms, not knowing what to say now that he stood before his father. Thranduil’s eyes found his and Legolas’ fell and he became still and silent, staring at the ground even as Kili held fast to his arm.   
Gandalf gave the king a low bow, though he supported himself upon his staff; “King Thranduil, your timing could not be more appreciated.” There came a sort of scoffing from the disgruntled and half frozen dwarves that made the wizard sigh, but the King ignored them, his eyes drifting from his son to Bard, to Thorin and Bilbo and finally back to Gandalf. “Mithrandir,” he spoke addressing Gandalf, “I much desire to speak with you.”

 

*** 

They were gathered together in master of the town’s own lodgings, much to his displeasure, and were given dry clothes and warm blankets and stiff drinks to ward off sickness and chill. Healers of the King’s own court came to look upon the injured and soon their wounds seemed like a dim unpleasant memory. But there was no peace within Lake Town.   
The night above them was clear and bright and brought with it a knife like chill through the air, keeping everyone indoors. Thorin stayed close to Bilbo’s side and would not be moved from it. After a time, Bilbo’s eyes opened again, and found his. He smiled strangely at the man, for he almost could not believe what he was seeing, and raised his hand up to touch the softness of his skin and the stubble of his beard. Thorin kissed his chapped and bloodied fingers like they were precious things. “How did you find me?” Bilbo asked, his voice soft and shaking.  
“I will always find you.” Was all the King would answer and kissed him again. The warmth and feel of him seemed to bring the hobbit back to life so that now he sat up and looked at him, puzzling. “I admit I am very confused,” he said, looking Thorin up and down. “It was I who was going to save you, if I recall. Yet this is quite backwards.”  
Thorin laughed and the sound of rang in the hall like music in a long forgotten place. “I think it is well to say that we have saved each other,” he answered. “And as for me, the Elves have done what the wizard’s magic could not, and though I am not whole, I am as close to it as I might ever be again.” Bilbo noted this with a sad nod of his head, for he could see through Thorin’s tunic that he was indeed scarred and bandaged, and that the wounds received in battle might never fully heal. “I know what it was you were trying to do, “ he said then, holding Bilbo’s palm in his. “I am pained to tell you that you nearly lost your life for nothing. The Arkenstone possesses no healing properties, or my grandfather would have used them. Whatever its secrets, they could not have saved me or the others. Dain tricked you, I believe in hopes that you would deliver the stone to him.”  
Bilbo felt foolish then and could not look at him; he was so angry that he felt tears burning in the corners of his eyes and felt himself wanting to lash out. Instead he balled his fists and dug them into his sides. “I hate that stone. I curse the day I learned its name! It almost cost me everything I love!”  
Thorin bowed his head in great shame, knowing that he was largely the cause of this anger and these tears. He wrapped himself around Bilbo, though the Halfling still would not look at him. “I don’t care what happens to that rock. It means nothing to me now. It brought nothing to my family but the strife of trying to protect it, when we should have been protecting each other. I am loathe that it came to this before I learned that lesson. And if you never forgive me, I will understand.”  
“I do forgive you,” Bilbo whispered, hiding his face in Thorin’s arm, not wanting him to see him cry. “But I can’t forgive myself. I loved you so much…why didn’t I try harder to stop you? Why did I let you go into battle? I should have wrestled you to the ground, I should have…I should have…” he couldn’t say anything more, for his chest heaved and he started to sob helplessly and Thorin sat and held him for a long time until the tremors and the tears passed. They laid together in the bed for a time, shielded from the rest of the room by only a thin sheet hanging upon a rope that was strung in long lines across the room to create some semblance of privacy and separateness from the rest of the hall.  
“Are Fili and Kili alright now?”  
“Yes,” Thorin mumbled, his face nestled in Bilbo’s short curls. “But I worry for Kili. I think that he is about to suffer a heartbreak that I cannot protect him from now. I knew this day would come.”

 

***   
Away from the eyes and ears of others, the King had taken his son to speak with him in private of what had transpired in his absence.  
Gandalf, Bard, and Maxwell waited in the wings while they spoke, each absorbed in his own dim thoughts. The wizard looked to them, “I am sickened by the blantant idiocy and greed I see before me,” he said looking between the two men. “That you would use grief to leverage yourself in trade, necessary or not, is unspeakable.”  
Maxwell, whom hardly knew the wizard, bristled like a large badger and huffed, “What would you know about it, old man? We had a common need, that was all, there was no manipulation of any kind. And what of it now? I’ve still come out short in the bargain.” He glared at Bard, who kept his dark head low, absorbed in smoking his pipe, but he felt he wizard’s gaze upon him.  
“Where is it, Bard?”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“You know of what I speak. Bilbo had no right to take it, and you had no right to accept, whatever good intentions there might have been between you. The Arkenstone is the heart of the Lonely Mountain, and there it belongs, not with any man or king, but unto the mountain itself.” He held out his hand and Bard blinked at him with a vague smile upon his lips; “You act as though think I would carry such a thing around in my pocket. I am not so foolish, Gandalf.”  
“That is good to know. But you will return it to Thorin, won’t you.”  
“Of course.”  
At this Maxwell looked most perplexed; “You have it?” he sputtered at Bard. “All this time?! You thief! But then, what of the Elven King? He promised it to me upon the return of his son!”  
“It was not his to promise either,” Gandalf corrected. “I’m sure he would have promised you the whole of his kingdom if it brought his son back to him unharmed. You surely did not expect payment, did you?”  
“Well yes! What is a man without his word!”  
“I am no Man,” Thranduil’s voice interrupted them from the doorway then, and they stepped within the hall to greet him properly. Legolas stood beside his father, his head bowed, possessed by great sorrow. Only Gandalf felt the depth of it, for immortal things are rarely touched by death and so it’s presence among them is confused and frightening. They experience sorrow, but grief is almost unknown to them. And it was grief now, in it’s cold and unpitying grip, that bound the two immortals before them and made them all feel small and fleeting like flowers in winter when the first frost comes.  
“Nor will I be beholden to any,” the King concluded as they entered, leering angrily at the master, who strove to look remorseful that he may somehow salvage their business affairs. “But you have kept your word. My son is here and whole and for that I thank you.” He looked to Bard with a measure of uncertainty and the man bowed before him respectfully.  
The King’s cool gaze turned to the wizard then, “What has transpired within the Kingdom of Erebor, Mithrandir, and what part have you played? I am curious to know what interest a wizard of the Istari has with dwarves.”  
“My business is my own,” Gandalf answered with respect but little kindness. “As for the trials of Erebor, its troubles are only beginning, and there has been little rest for the King Under the Mountain.”  
“Thorin lives?”  
“Indeed, as do his kindred, as your son might have spoken to you.”   
The Elven King took little comfort in this, and said only; “Then I shall go to him and seek reparations for our losses. This war would never have come to my people were it not for his meddling.”  
“This war came to your people because of your greed.” Gandalf spoke, “And you know it well. Your long lust for jewels clouded your judgment, and your prejudice against the people of the mountain sparked your ire. You chose to this war, Woodland King, never forget that.”  
Something inside the Elf roiled with rage and it was seen only in his eyes. It was then that Legolas spoke; “Ada, let us quarrel no more with them. Our hearts are heavy, our light dimmed. My brother is dead, and I would see no more death, no more hatred. Let us go home.”  
He turned to his son then and slowly the embers in his cold blue eyes softened and faded. “Yes, you are right. We will leave here by first light. I wash my hands of these dark days and deeds. Let the dwarves fight their own battles if they wish, they will trouble me no further.”  
He turned and took his leave, Maxwell clamoring after him, promising that he would sever ties with Erebor if only he would reconsider their contract. Legolas lingered, a cold lonely light shivering across his skin in the dark. No one spoke, and then new footsteps were heard and Kili made himself known.  
“There you are,” he smiled as he stepped into the room, though it faded quickly when his lover’s eyes met his. “What’s happened?”  
“My brother has fallen.” Legolas answered simply. “He was killed in the battle.”  
Kili blinked in shock, for the idea of an Elf dying, even in battle seemed to confuse him, despite all he had seen. As Legolas sunk numbly upon a bench, he came to stand beside him and put his arms around him protectively, allowing the elf to rest his head upon his ribs and close his eyes for a time. In the moonlight from the windows he looked pale and unreal, and Kili was almost afraid he would simply vanish from between his palms and held him more tightly. “I am so sorry.”  
Gandalf bowed his head and turned, ushering Bard to leave with him, and the bowman gave no protest. This was a moment that was not for their eyes. When they were alone, Kili spoke again; “Were you very close?”  
“He was nearly six hundred years my senior, but we were the closest in age.” Legolas answer, and the thought of that boggled the young dwarf’s mind, yet he stayed respectfully silent. “I have never known a world without him. That he is gone leaves me in me a void that aches.” He did not weep, and Kili was still not completely sure that he could, but he felt his lover’s pain and kissed his soft flaxen hair. “Do not despair. He goes to a better place now. A far green country, where there is only peace and no thought of war or evil will ever trouble him there.”   
It was what his mother and uncle had always told him of the fate of his own father, and he believed it with all his heart, for nothing else could ease the ache of loss. Legolas curled his long arms around the shorter man and bent upward to press his lips to his. “Be with me. I need you beside me tonight.”  
Kili nodded and shed himself of his coat before pushing the taller man flat upon the wide bench and bending over him to kiss him deeply. Legolas relished the scratch of his stubble and short beard upon his skin and the smell of his hair and skin, the warmth of something living and breathing and so beautifully and dreadfully mortal. He made a sound that was something like a sob, but there were no tears in his eyes, and Kili kissed him again to hush him, undressing as much as needed without revealing themselves entirely to the empty but open room.  
His lover was more than submissive and accepting beneath him, wanting nothing more than for the dwarf to make him feel bound to this world again draw his mind and heart from the terrible place it had been banished to. He pulled Kili down on top of him as the Dwarf positioned himself between the Elf’s long legs and rocked forward, greeted by the resistance of muscles that gave way with a sigh and a groan.   
They said nothing to each other during their love making and kept nearly silent except for the little cries and gasps that slipped between them. Kili found that his eyes were misting, and he did not entirely understand why, and he shut them tighter to forget and became a bit rougher, wanting to bring them both over the edge. It happened almost quicker than expected, but neither complained, and they let the light of the torches go out as they laid together in the dark, warm and weary, each alone in their thoughts.  
“You’re leaving,” Kili whispered then, his voice small and helpless, almost like a child’s.  
“I must.”  
The dwarf nodded and pressed his nose against the nape of the elf’s neck and Legolas felt the warm dampness of tears there. “I love you.”  
“and I you.”  
They said no more, and the stars far above them glowed cold and bright in the distance.

 

***


	8. Dimmed and Deminished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate for revenge for the loss of his prosperity, the Master of Lake Town makes a deadly deal and Gandalf feels an old darkness spread it's reaching hand, ready to take whatever it might.

***   
Bilbo’s stomach made an unpleasant noise as he padded his way down the corridor towards the store room where he knew that food was kept. He hadn’t lived like a proper Hobbit in many long months, but that did not stop him from still wanting to eat like one when he could. His face was still flushed and his hair tussled into a great bushy mass of finger teased curls upon his head. He could smell Thorin on him and still feel the sweet ache of his teeth and finger marks on his skin. Smiling, he pulled his shirt collar a little closer to his neck to hide the love bite there, smiling like a young lad who was in the beginning days of his honeymoon.  
Upon arriving at the door, which he thought he had come to in secret, he found himself to be a late arrival, for there was also Gandalf and Bard, both smoking and having themselves a very late supper.   
“Bilbo, my dear,” the wizard said with a smile, his knowing blue eyes twinkling through the dim haze of the smoke that shrouded his head. “Won’t you join us?”  
“Certainly!” Bilbo hurried inside and closed the door, and as he stared around in the dim light he found himself feeling suddenly guilty. “Should we be doing this? It’s not stealing is it?”  
“These are Master Maxwell’s personal stores,” Bard answered with a long exhale of smoke from his pipe. “It would not harm him to have a leaner larder, if I say so myself.” Gandalf chuckled as Bilbo sat himself down on a crate and helped himself to a crate of sweet apples. The fruit crunched loudly and he slurped the juice that threatened to dribble down his chin.   
“I am surprised to see you out of your bed,” Gandalf mused. “Especially since you were not alone.”  
Bilbo blushed faintly. “Thorin is sleeping and my stomach had other ideas. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a moment to stop and eat without some interruption. I was hardly going to pass that up.”  
Bard smiled in the candle light, “Yes well, love making will work up an appetite.”  
Gandalf chuckled as Bilbo’s cheeks turned nearly as red as his snack and he glared at the bowman. “It is considered rather rude to remark on another person’s love affairs unless invited to do so, which I certainly have not.” He muttered, not really angry. “Besides, I think you are simply jealous.”  
“Ah, young men,” Gandalf said shaking his head. “I can hardly recall a time when I was one.”  
They both gave him a curious glance, but the wizard did not meet their eyes and they decided that it must be a tale for another day. In the interim, Bard cleared his throat with another swig of wine from the bottle he had filched. “I have something for you, friend hobbit,” he said, reaching into the depths of his quiver to reveal a circular object wrapped in several layers of old burlap. He handed it to Bilbo, “I always intended to return it. I’m sure your king will be glad of it’s safe return.”  
Bilbo unwrapped the little parcel with great care, and in the dark of the store room, the brightness of the Arkenstone gleamed with the sheen of a thousand diamonds. But the little Hobbit could not be dazzled by its sparkle. He covered it over again and tucked it safely away inside his pocket next to the ring he found in the mountains, for it was a good pocket for keeping secrets.  
Gandalf nodded at this and for a time they ate and drank in warm silence. The wizard allowed his mind to wander to far distance places, to the shadows he’d seen and faced during the course of this journey; things even Bilbo knew nothing about. He thought of the deepening shadow over Mirkwood forest, and the horror within the old fortress. He and the White Council had banished the being called the Necromancer for now, yet Gandalf did not feel at ease. Though Saruman would have him believe otherwise, this had not been an idle threat. There was some greater shadow around this wicked being, and it was growing somehow, gathering it’s strength in the dark corners of the world where most people would not take notice.  
He felt an icy shiver of fear pierce him then, like an icicle cutting through his skin and bones, turning them to dust and his blood to water, but he did little more than blink as this horror passed through him. He turned his eyes to the door as if he could see through it passed the great walls and out among the open. As if conjured up by his thoughts, something evil stirred within the darkness around them, coiled and waiting.   
The old man stood then, putting out his pipe and tucking it away, much to his companions confusion.   
“Are we all accounted for then?”  
“I suppose. Why do you ask?” Bilbo asked.  
“I think I will go and make sure.” He tried to smile so as not to alarm them, but he felt almost sick with dread. Something was here, now, on their doorstep and when and how meant to strike the wizard did not know. He could only wait and watch and hope that whatever it was would show itself soon so that he could meet it in battle.  
*** 

The night waned, and the moon climbed overhead, thinly veiled by a few heavy clouds. But Fili could not sleep. He took to pacing the floor, and when this did not satisfy his restless urge, he took to walking the frozen dirt paths of the town, keeping his hood low so that he might not be recognized. All that had transpired had left him with a feeling of deep uncertainty, even loss to a strange measure. Looking out across the frozen lake from the top of the hill, he saw the mountain looming vast and silent and felt its eyes upon him.  
This was meant to be his home, all they had strived for over so many long hard years. After all they had been through, after all they had sacrificed, it still seemed like a vision or a dream, intangible and fleeting. Fili had never known a time in Erebor, and from the time that he was able to walk he had lived a nomadic life style with his mother and uncle, lingering in a town or a city for a few months or a few weeks before packing up and moving on. Fili had come to accept that the idea of ‘home’ was not in places or possessions but in the people around him. Perhaps that was why he always kept so close to Thorin and Kili. They were his home, no matter where he was. It made his heart heavy then, for he felt like he was losing even that now. Fili bore no ill will towards the elven prince which had managed to capture his brother’s heart, but neither did he fully approve. It was not the same kind of disapproval that came from their uncle and the elder of their kin who had seen the betrayal of Thranduil, but the insecurity of losing his close relationship with his brother. Outsiders had always proven trouble for their family, and more than one had tried to destroy them. Bilbo had been the first to break that mold, and Fili could not have been more glad of it. He had never seen his uncle so content as he had been with the hobbit. But he feared it would not be the same for his brother and Legolas, and Fili did not know how to mend a broken heart.  
A noise from somewhere to his left alerted the young dwarf and made him quickly take shelter beneath the darkened eve of a house. He listened, hushing his breath so that it might not interfere with the faint words he was trying to follow.  
“…and you’re sure this will be enough?”  
“If it isn’t than you’re woes are far bigger than mine. The old man said he collected it from the old forest fortress, and has never known man or beast that could withstand its deadly affect for long.”  
“I don’t need to fell a beast. I need to fell an Elf.”  
This made Fili’s heart leap and his eyes widened. He strained to hear more, daring to inch a bit further. Around the corner of the building he could see two shadowy figures; neither did he recognized immediately, but one he came to realize was the master of the town, the same fat pompous windbag that had greeted them when they had come down the river in barrels almost two months ago.  
“What will you use?”  
“I’ll pour it into his wine I suppose. Besides, it’s no business of yours how I do it. Your part is done.” Maxwell handed the strange a small but weighty bag of gold, “Now all you need do is disappear, and forget that you ever saw my face.”  
“Gladly.”  
They made to turn from each other, when the hooded stranger gave pause, glaring about and motioned for Maxwell to be still. Fili didn’t move, he held his breath, eyes shifting nervously in the dark. Both men disappeared upon the road, and the young dwarf tried to move so that he might track their movements.  
He squinted in the dark, nervous fingers working at the sword within his belt. Then something hard and cold collided so sharply with his skull that he cried out, his vision turning red as the world spun in front of his eyes and he was on his knees and then knew nothing more.

The stranger stood over the fallen dwarf, sneering down at him as he turned him over with his foot. “What’s this then? Mountain folk? Thought they had gone from these parts.”  
Maxwell hurried to the scene and cringed when he saw Fili’s face, now smeared with blood and dirt. “Dammit! It’s one of those detestable dwarves! Is he dead? You must kill him before he reveals our plot!”  
But the stranger did not seem eager to act upon the master’s panic. He bent down and rifled through the dwarf’s pockets until he produced a short knife with its distinct Dwarven runes. “I’ve a better idea.”

*** 

Kili woke in the dark, shivering and uncomfortable. He found his lover still close beside him, his eyes open and glazed. It would have given him a start if he hadn’t come to accept the odd sleep of Elves, whom at their most restful sleep with their eyes open and fixed above them as though looking into the stars beyond this world. The dwarf kissed his cheek and covered him with the scrap of blanket they had found before standing up to stretch and find something to quench his parched throat.  
It was as he left the main hall to find a water pitcher that he came across another sleepless wanderer. “Uncle!”  
Thorin seemed almost as startled by him as he was, but then he sighed; “You’ll be the death of me, lad, sneaking up the way you do.”  
“I think it was you who was sneaking,” Kili countered, and for a moment they both stood, taking stock of each other as an awkward silence came over them. Kili looked to the floor and pretended to be busy with filling his cup as Thorin drew in a deep breath; “Are you happy with him?”  
“What?”  
“Are you?”  
Kili nodded, “Like I’ve never been with anyone. But it doesn’t matter now.”  
“Why is that?”  
“He’s leaving at dawn with the rest of his people. I don’t think that I will ever see him again.” He glowered at the floor, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “So I guess you get your way after all.”  
“That is unfair,” Thorin said firmly, making the younger dwarf look up at him. “I would never wish unhappiness upon you, nor do anything to deliberately cause it. That is why I forbade you from seeing him.”  
“Well, I am not yours to forbade, am I?” And Kili knew that as the bitter words left his lips that they were wrong and wounding and he regretted them at once. Thorin may only have been his uncle, but he was all the father Kili had ever known, and he always treated him like a son more than a nephew. The uncle comfortable rift that had come between them over his love-affair hurt them both, and now he found himself wishing it had never happened.  
“Go with him.”  
The words seem to hover in the air like mist, and he could barely believe he had uttered them, no more than his nephew could believe he’d heard them. “What?”  
Thorin gripped his shoulders the way he always had whenever he had something of importance to impart upon him, and Kili noticed that his eyes had softened and some of the hardness that had always been there had vanished. “If you love him, truly, then I give you my blessing to leave. It is a time of mourning for them, and he will need you by his side.”  
“But…I could never leave you and Fili behind! What of Erebor?”  
“I don’t know. All I know is that I want you safe, and if the only way that can happen is to set you free and let you go with them,” he drew in another breath to steady himself and added, “then I must do so.” He hugged him tightly, leaning his head against his. “I would not have you make the same unhappy mistakes that I have made. I love you too much.”  
Kili couldn’t speak. He bit his lip and simply held on to Thorin for a time, and his uncle felt him shaking with tears and said nothing, knowing they needed to come. “Thank you.” He stepped back, wiping his cheeks on his sleeve and Thorin smiled, tussling his hair and clapping him upon the back. “Bilbo has really changed you, hasn’t he?”  
Thorin pretended to scowl, “Do not ever let him know that.”  
There came a cry then that broke the stillness of the dark and made both dwarves tense and reach for weapons that neither were holding. “It came from outside,” Kili nodded and Thorin was already moving ahead of him at a trot, not knowing what to expect but ready for anything. Others had begun to stir now as well and poke their heads about in wonder of the sound, but Thorin and Kili reached it first.  
They had come out of one of the side doors of the hall and saw a flurry of movement in the bright moonlight. The Elves that had staid behind were rallying together, sending an alarm. “What’s happened?” Thorin barked, but they ignored him. It was only when they heard another cry coming from the front of the hall that they saw the source of the commotion.  
The two elven sentries that had been posted at the door were slain, their graceful forms crumpled and broken in death, fresh blood still pouring from their open wounds. Captain of the Guard, Tauriel swept up behind them as they stood stunned upon the step. “He went inside, hurry!”  
They almost did not comprehend what she was saying, but they followed at any rate, hearts racing now. They followed a trail of muddy foot prints and drops of blood through the main hall, seeing slashed tapestries and overturned tables, but the damage seemed minimal, until they heard the dismayed cry of Bilbo Baggins.  
Thorin’s heart went into his throat and he ran at full speed, crashing through the gaping onlookers at the doorway. They had come around full circle without realizing it, and though it had been Bilbo’s wail they had heard, it was not him they were gawking at.  
Two bodies were upon the floor, one unmoving and limp with the Hobbit crouched over it, cradling his bloodied head. The other was squirming, writhing like a snake in pain. Legolas was writhing upon the floor with the wizard muttering over him, his eyes wide and terrified even as he tried a spell to ease the prince’s pain. Blood poured from a deep wound in the Prince’s side, and the paleness of his skin had turned to ashen grey and his eyes were clouded and unseeing.   
“Thorin! Your nephew!” The wizard barked at him, nodding over his shoulder at the victim being cradled by Bilbo. The King under the Mountain started forward and dropped beside them, seeing Fili limp in his lover’s arms, bloodied and dirty as though he had been outside. Lying close to his limp hand was his dagger, but it was stained with blood as well as something black and horrible that stung his senses and made him want to recoil from it.   
Bilbo gawked at him, bug-eyed and sick. “We heard a noise around the corner; like someone kicking down a door. I heard Legolas cry out; he was pleading with him to stop…but by the time we got here…they were like this…I cannot wake him, I don’t know what happened!”  
Thorin couldn’t speak, he seemed to be in state of horrific shock, but he managed to take Fili from Bilbo’s arms and hold him tightly to him. He was still alive, he could feel breath within him, but he could not explain what had become of him. Kili had wandered over to them and was standing above them now, his face as pale and blanched as bone. Gandalf cried out again as Legolas writhed and gasped upon the floor, and he turned from his family to kneel at his lover’s side, only to be pushed aside by Tauriel. She put her fingers upon his wound and drew them back, seeing that they were blackened. “I’ve never seen poison like this,” she gawked for it burned her skin and she hastened to rid herself of it.  
“it is not poison, it’s black venom,” the wizard answered with great strain. Kili put his arms around the prince in an effort to comfort and restrain him as the wizard dug frantically within his belt for some unknown remedy. “Can you help him?” Kili asked, and he found that he hardly recognized his own voice. He looked for hope in the wizard’s face, as he had done countless times before on this journey. But this time, he saw none.  
“This is beyond even my skill, master Kili,” he said as he produced something green and sticky looking from a tiny jar and pressed it into Legolas’ wound. The a scream was wrenched from his throat and Kili cringed, holding him tightly. But whatever it was that wizard had managed the tremors lessoned and the convulsions ceased and Legolas grew limp and still in Kili’s hands. The cloud went from his eyes and for a moment they met Kili’s, frightened and lost. “Help me…” was all that he managed, and his voice was like the breath of a ghost, then he could speak no more. His eyes closed and Kili found himself nearly screaming as he tried to rouse him again.  
The gathered throng parted then as someone else made their way through the crowd and an awful cry went up from its source. Thranduil stood behind them for but a moment before kneeling at his son’s side and tearing him from Kili’s hands. Only Gandalf held the dwarf back and bade him be silent. The Elven King looked in horror and despair at his child’s passive face, spattered with blood, and the grief and loss and complete hopeless in his eyes was enough to set even the strongest men to weeping. When an immortal thing grieves, all the world shivers for their loss.   
“He has not passed beyond reach,” Gandalf spoke, his words barely reaching the distraught King. Thranduil lifted his eyes to meet the wizard’s and the sea raged within them like a storm. “He may yet be saved.”  
“What darkness is this that covers him? Whom has done to this to my child?” the Elf King rumbled, and the ire in his voice was like the mountain coming down upon itself.   
“It would seem it was this lad,” a lofty voice said, drawing their attention back to the dwarves and the hobbit. Over them stood the Master of Lake Town, in his hand was clutched a muddy cloak which belonged to Fili, “They found this outside beside the bodies. He seems to have lost it in the quarrel.”  
“Treacherous snake,” Thorin thundered, and he would have rose and strangled the fat man with his bare hands were he not still clutching Fili’s unconscious figure. “How dare you accuse one of mine!”  
“Only a guilty conscience accuses,” Maxwell continued sounding reproachful. “I am merely stating what is. Is that not his dagger there upon the floor, wet with the victim’s blood?”  
The elves eyes fell upon the weapon and the room held it’s breath to see what would happen next. Thorin’s company pushed their way through the gaping crowd of men as the remaining woodland guard raised their arrows at Thorin and Fili, waiting for attack.   
“Hold your weapons!” Gandalf bellowed and it shook the room, causing them all to still. “There has been murder here, and a plot still more foul than that!” He moved from the King to Fili’s side and with a careful hand picked up the fallen dagger, turning it over in his fingers. “Black venom is found only one place in the world in this age, and that is in the greenwood. No dwarf has ever heard of it, nor would have any means by which to acquire it. It is obvious to me then that someone wishes to see old feuds rekindled and more of the same blood spilt.”  
Bard swept forward then, his eyes full of fire as they settled upon Maxwell. He grabbed the man by the collar and shook him like a rag doll, lifting his bulbous form a foot or so from the ground. “What have you done?! What have you DONE!?”  
“I am innocent!”  
“What conspiracy is this?” Thranduil demanded then, and the light seemed to shrink from the room as he spoke and Bilbo shivered and bent himself across Fili and Thorin, not knowing if he was trying to protect them or himself. “What ill will lays the elves of Mirkwood low? What evil seeks to take what is mine? I will have none of it! The air of this place is rank with wickedness and I will see it devoured, and any that dare to approach us within the borders of our realm will know my wrath!”  
He stood then and lifted his son protectively against him and no one dared to move to intervene, knowing they would be struck dead by doing so. The Elven King, more beautiful and terrible than a hailing storm of ice and lightning looked to his Captain then, “Take the dwarf, he is our prisoner. I will know what part he had to play in this treachery.”  
“No!” Kili shouted, but it was Thorin who pulled Sting from Bilbo’s scabbard and pointed it at the elven woman as she bent to take Fili. “You will have him only over my dead body.”  
“Do not tempt me, Thorin Oakenshield.”  
“Thranduil, I beg you, do not do this!” Gandalf hissed, but the King was beyond hearing and reason. Shifting his son’s body only slightly he drew his own weapon and managed to catch Kili upon it’s very tip, causing the advancing dwarf to freeze in his steps lest he be run through by the Elvish blade. “You may only choose one to save, Oakenshield.”  
Thorin cursed in his native tongue, and with great pain he allowed Tauriel to take the injured Fili from his arms. The King crumbled upon himself watching them go, and Bilbo bade the guard to be gentle with him, and she seemed to understand.  
The Elves departed in silence, and it was only after they had crossed the threshold that both Thorin and Kili were up and running, Bofur, Balin, Bilbo and the others close at their heels to watch them depart like mists upon the water and vanish entirely.  
Thorin screamed loud and long into the darkness until he thought his heart would burst with the effort of it, then fell to his knees and did not move, Bilbo’s arms around him and his kin by his side.   
Only Kili went running past them, leaping and bounding across the grounds as he chased them down to the river front, screaming; “Bring him back! Bring him back!” He waded out into the icy water until his boots caught into the icy muck and he could go no further, and stood wailing until he grew hoarse and lost all use of his voice as he wept. Dwalin came and fetched him back, and for a time no one spoke at all.  
It was the wizard that broke the silence at last; “We must follow them, as soon as there is enough light, back up the river and past their sentries into the forest. There is only one hope for either of them now.”  
“What hope can there be?” Ori asked, his voice small and meek in the great room.  
“The most unlikely of all. We must seek out my old friend, Radagast the Brown.

***


	9. A Willing Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin, Kili, Bilbo and Gandalf leave to rescue Fili and Legolas, when it becomes clear that their battles with Dain are not yet finished and the Company must part ways in order to defend on both fronts.
> 
> Meanwhile in Mirkwood, Fili finds himself in strange company and embarking on a mission to save not only the life of the ailing prince, but his own.

***   
The first light had not come over the valley, but their ponies were packed and saddled and their affairs arranged. They had no proof of the Master’s involvement in this plot, though it seemed Bard needed none, and for the time being he was left to rot in a cell while the Bowman took over affairs.   
He came to see them off that morning, all of them standing around shivering in the dark with clouds of steam rising from their breath. “It would be futile to say I wish you luck, for you have all I could ever hope for to go with you. But if that is not enough, take this,” he ushered to the cart that had come up behind him, and the Dwarves saw that it was heavily laden with weaponry. “I know it is not perhaps what you are used to, but the journey ahead of you will be dangerous and I would not have you go unprepared.”  
“Thank you.” Thorin nodded gratefully. “When we return, we shall settles affairs between us, and I swear upon my soul that I will help you make your city great once more, however I can.”  
“I am humbled, great King Under the Mountain. But you have your own battles to fight now.”  
“Luckily, he will not have to fight them alone,” said the wizard as he approached on his own horse. “Bard, you must ready your people against possible reproach from the mountain until we return. Dain Ironfoot resides there now, and a madness has overtaken him. His people remain good, but they are torn. I cannot tell you what to expect, accept to say that they may come after us.”  
“If that be so, it will be dealt with.” He turned to look at Bilbo, who stood so faithfully by Thorin’s side. “I wish you all the luck in the world my little friend. Please take care of yourselves and these dwarves. And do not forget the present I gave you; it may come in handy.”  
Bilbo nodded and no more words were exchanged between them as the Dwarves took what they thought might be useful from the weapons stores without burdening themselves. Here at last Bard spoke to Kili, who seemed like a ghost of himself, hard and angry. He removed his bow from his back and his quiver; “Take these.”  
The dwarf stared at him bitterly; “I do not need them.”  
“They are elf craft, the finest the forest has to offer. Your Legolas himself admired them. I would be honored for you to have them, may they protect you from the dangers you face.”  
Reluctantly Kili accepted the gift with a nod of his head and Bard bowed his own and left them to their affairs, for he had much of his own to settle. 

They rode out across the icy bridge that lead them to shore, and in the dim waning light of the dark where the moon had still not sunk completely over the trees, they vanished up the long winding hills, following the river that had brought them there.  
Gandalf rode on ahead of them, with Bilbo and Thorin flanking either side of him and Kili just behind them. “What time do we have?” Thorin asked of the wizard. “And do not lie to me.”  
“I would never lie for the sake of sparing pain,” Gandalf replied gruffly. “Black Venom is a rare and deadly vexation, said to have been pulled from the fangs of the Ungoliant herself, but what truth there is in that legend I am not yet old enough to tell.”  
“It cannot be healed by conventional methods as other poisons, for it unnatural and born of dark witchcraft. The only victims of it ever found were prisoners in the fortress of Dol Guldur, when Sauron last walked the world. No mortal thing could survive it; but the Elves showed some resistance. I slowed it’s resistance to the best of my ability,” he looked pitifully back at Kili who was watching him silent and wide-eyed and his fingers trembled upon his bridle. “Though it pains you, Kili, the King did what was best by taking him back to his home. Only there does he stand even the slightest chance of surviving long enough for us to reach Radagast and procure a cure.”  
“Is he in pain?” the young dwarf asked. “As he was before?”  
“I cannot say,” the wizard answered truthfully. “But there are great healers within Mirkwood and they will do what they can for him.”  
“And what of Fili? What will they do with him?” Thorin asked.  
“Thranduil is not a cruel King, but his mind is overwrought with grief and despair for his children. Fili will not be safe until we can reach him.”  
This spurred Thorin on and he rode ahead of even the wizard and they let him pass, for he knew the way well enough from here and would not be lost. Bilbo dropped back a little to ride beside Kili and put his hand on the Dwarf’s knee, “It’ll turn out alright in the end, I promise.”  
But Kili felt sick with himself and it was only for his love of Bilbo and the continued kindness that the Hobbit had shown to them that he held back the angry bile boiling in the back of his throat, put there by guilt and worry. “What if it isn’t?” was all he could ask.  
Bilbo smiled, though it was thin and tinged with his own fears, “It will. Trust me.”  
“If not you, Bilbo my friend, then no one.”  
“We will not be able to go by way of the Old Forest Road,” Gandalf continued on then, watching Thorin ride ahead in the distance. “They will be watching. We shall have to another way, a secret way.”  
The Dwarves moaned and Gloin gruffed; “The last time we went through this accursed forest we nearly didn’t come out in one piece, and then the Elves didn’t count us as enemies, just a nescience!”  
The wizard was about to argue with him when something in the sky behind them caught his attention. There was smoke coming from the mountain. “It looks as if Dain is making trouble a bit sooner than expected.” He muttered, feeling more aggravated by the moment.  
This troubled them all, for if Dain was preparing for battle with them and the Men of Lake Town as they feared, Bard would be left painfully ill prepared. It was Balin who spoke next; “I have a proposal,” he said, making them all look to him, and even now they could see that Thorin had seen the smoke as well and was riding back to join them. “The lot of us tromping through Mirkwood will be noticed quickly, and more than likely to our doom. It feels to me this mission must stay secret for as long as it may if we have any hope of rescue.”  
“Agreed.”  
“And the battle that comes from the mountain is truly ours. It would be unwise to let mere men fight it for us,” he looked to Thorin who now understood fully what his old friend had in mind. “Who would go with you?”  
“I will stay with Balin,” Gloin nodded, “The forest does not suit me and my axe is hungry for the taste of traitor’s blood.” Oin sided with his brother, and Dori and Nori and Ori as well. Bombur, who had had such a terrible time in Mirkwood before, though he had slept through a great deal of it, decided to stay behind as well, and Bofur bade his cousin Bifur to stay with his brother.   
It was here that Dwalin hesitated before looking to his older brother; “I will go with Thorin and Kili and Mr. Baggins. They will need strong arms to protect them.”  
The two brothers nodded to each other and knocked their heads together before parting. Thorin looked to Balin, “I have no worries with you, my old friend, you are wise beyond my years. I will say only that remember he is our kin and that his mind is not his own. But if he draws blood from any of you, then he must pay in kind.”  
“Consider it done. Good luck!”  
“And to you! Farewell!”  
The rest of their party turned back down the road, leaving only six of their fourteen to carry onward. Bilbo was not sure whether or not this lifted his spirits or dampened them, but it almost pained him to see Balin and the others go, for in all their time of traveling with them they had always been together, whatever the dangers. Thorin’s hand brushed his as they turned to ride away and he lifted his eyes once more to the road before them and let the rest fall away behind him.

*** 

Fili could not open both eyes at first and wondered for a few terrible moments if he had been blinded. His hand shakily groped over his skin and found to some relief that this was not the case, but that his face was such a mess of blood and mud that the dried stuff had formed something of a scab and that he had scratch at it before he could see properly. His head sang with pain and he dare not lift it from the floor. Despite knowing he had been asleep, or unconscious, he felt exhausted, and cold and mirthless.  
He could not recall what had happened to him, strive though he might and as his eyes adjusted to the light and their surroundings, he had the sudden terrible feeling he’d been here before.   
The carved, earthen walls that arched above his head, strengthened by an artistic forming of roots from which dangled a lantern were a giveaway, and he rolled his aching head to see the bars of his cell casting shadows over him in long black lines. He rolled himself onto his stomach and tried to push himself up on his hands and knees and after several shaky attempts, he was able to crawl forward to grip the iron and look out upon the corridor. “Mirkwood? How in Mahal did I get here?”  
“Oh,” a lonely creaking voice from across the path answered, much to the dwarf’s shock, “probably much the same way I did. Nasty things Elves can be, when they want to, don’t let their pretty faces fool you. Cold and terrible as the winter they are when they’re angry.”  
Fili squinted in the dim light, for his vision was still somewhat impaired and slowly he came to recognize the familiar shape of the brown wizard, Radagast. He looked old and frail, and his strange hat was gone from his head, exposing his wicked tangle of dirty hair upon his head, and his eyes were sad and blood shot as he sat huddled in the corner by the bars, stroking something in the crook of his arms that Fili could not quite make out, but that squeaked and sniffled sadly like a small animal.  
“Radagast, was it? The queer fellow with the sled and the rabbits?”  
The old wizard smiled at him and nodded his head; “Oh yes, yes, that would be me. And you’re one of Thorin’s Company. Bodur or Baller or something?”  
Fili almost laughed, “Fili, actually. Not that it matters.” He slumped against the bars tiredly and wondered if they had some enchantment upon them that made him want to close his eyes, give up and never move again.   
“Of course it matters. Or at least it should matter. What have they gone and collected a Dwarf for then, eh? Have you been mucking around in the woods all this time? No, that couldn’t be, I would have heard about it. Dwarves in Mirkwood, ha! It’s still preposterous.”  
“Indeed,” the blonde nodded. “I was taken, I think. I cannot recall when or why. What has happened? Are the others here as well?”  
“You’re the only Dwarf I see here, and I imagine if there were more of you I’d smell it.” He sniffed the air for emphasis and Fili glowered at him. “This from the man with bird droppings on his face,” he found himself muttering.  
“Well not all of your humor is lost I see. That is a good sign.” And Radagast winked at him and went back to stroking his squeaking pet, which turned out to be Sebastian the Hedgehog, “I cannot say why you are here, Master Fili the Dwarf, only that if you are it is because you must have something they want. They are in a terrible temper, the Elves. Many are dead, and that is always woeful, but now one is sickened by his wickedness….”  
“What’s that?”  
“The prince is afflicted by the great spider’s venom. It’s killing him, oh but not quickly, no, no. Those old devil’s like to watch things squirm and he liked it even more, the dark lord did. They caught me on the chance that I could help him.”  
“And can you?”  
“Not alone. There is something I need but those stubborn fools will not hear me! Without it, I am useless as you.”  
“This elf, what is he called?”  
“Why it is the wee prince Legolas, Thranduil’s pet, of course.” Radagast muttered. “Immortals; they never cease to vex me. Live for thousands and thousands of years and yet they never learn a thing, especially this lot! And things have gotten terrible I tell you, oh just terrible! The Elven King’s rage is warping the forest, soon not even the spiders will want to live here, and that is saying something.”  
But then Radagast seemed to dim and went off talking to himself or his pet about no particular nonsense and ignored Fili completely. The helpless heir of Durin sunk down against the dirt floor again and closed his eyes, his stomach in knots and his spirit in ruins and gave himself up to sleep again for a time.  
It was an uneasy dream, filled with memories of his childhood, and of standing alone and forgotten upon a dirt road as others rushed by him in a panic, completely overlooking him, and how he had stood, so small and alone and wept bitterly, until strong arms came around him and swept him up and held him close and his uncle’s voice was in his ear; “Do not cry, little one, I am with you now. You’re safe, Fili.”  
If only it had been true, but the comfort of Thorin’s voice vanished as he opened his eyes again and found someone had come to his cell and was turning a key in the lock. The guard bade him to rise and follow them and Fili did his best though he stumbled and tripped until they took him beneath the arms and marched him along, up the winding stairs to the King’s Hall.  
Fili remembered the awe he had felt the first time he had entered this place, despite his fear, for it was beautiful and it’s sunken halls below the earth reminded him of the great caves he had seen and heard spoken about. But it was different now. There was no laughter, no songs or merry music to be heard, the dancing lights or great feasts. The halls of the Elven King were bare and empty as winter trees, and just as mirthless. The only sound was a sad, drifting tune that welled up from somewhere and drifted over them like a ghost and made Fili feel as if he would never be happy again.  
Thranduil sat bent upon his throne, his head in his hand and eyes cast down as if weeping. The crown upon his head was bare as bones and shone like bright ice in the sunlight. Fili looked upon him and though he should have felt fear and anger, he saw only a father’s great grief and did not speak nor make any sound at all until the King readied himself.  
“What say you, dwarf? Why have you done this?”  
“What have I done, my Lord? I know not why I am prisoner here, nor how I came to be here in the first place. Where is my kin and—“  
“Silence!” the Elf snarled at him, his voice like a thunder clap that shook the high roots above their heads. “You did not answer my question and I will answer none of yours till you do. Why have you done this? Why have you poisoned my son?”  
“I am innocent!” Fili proclaimed vehemently, trying to move closer but being held at bay by the spears of his guards. “I have no cause, no quarrel with Legolas! He has been my friend despite everything, and my brother--!”  
“Do not speak to me of your brother and his so-called affections. It was him that drew Legolas from his home and brought him into danger. I wish they had left you to the spiders to feast upon.”  
Fili bristled, but stood his ground silently, realizing nothing he could say would reach Thranduil in this state. “I had no part in your son’s malady.”  
“It was your knife with which he was stabbed.” And here the King produced Fili’s missing weapon and threw it at his feet. The young dwarf stared at it, picking up to find it strangely stained with something horrible and black that gnawed at the blade and turned it tarnished and dull. “What delivery is this?”  
Thranduil watched his actions with interest and asked then; “How came you by that wound upon your head, master dwarf?”  
Fili blinked and touched his fingers to the sticky place along his hairline where he felt his braids dried and gummy and covered in rust colored blood. Memory swam back, slowly but surely and he answered; “I was wandering in the village. I heard men speaking in the shadows, something about…your son. Yes, they were talking about poison of some kind. I tried to move closer to hear, but they must have spotted me…then I remember nothing.”  
Thranduil nodded slowly, but his ire did not lessen. “And whom were these men that you speak of?”  
“I don’t know their names. I recognized only one as one of the townsmen, but the other was a stranger to me.” He wavered a little upon his feet then and one of the guards had to steady him. “Please release me, and I will help you find them.”  
But the King was not moved by his plea; “I cannot prove what you say to me is true, master dwarf. Your people, especially your kin, have every reason to wish my son harm.”  
“No we don’t!” Fili found himself barking then, all pretense of manners and nobility forgotten. “My brother loves your son, and my Uncle would never do something so terrible as this! What happened upon the mountain was not his fault, he was under some spell!”  
“Indeed.”  
Fili snarled; “I do not care if you believe me. Go on, keep me here forever, locked in your dungeons and sit upon your throne and your hatred! None of it will save your son and you will only have yourself to blame!”  
Thranduil lifted himself to his feet and Fili felt the tips of spears grazing so close to his skin that it caused goosebumps to raise along his flesh, but he did not shirk and he did not flinch. The King approached him with a look of deep bitterness and grabbed him by his hair, pulling him closer. “I should cut off your beard and your hair to shame you, then strip you naked and leave you in that cell until you are nothing but dust. “  
“Then all you will accomplish is more death.”  
Thranduil shook him; “I want those responsible for this travesty! But you are all that I have,” and Fili realized that the King must indeed suspect his innocence, but had no other culprit, no other side of the story to which he could cling to.   
“I have spoken to Radgast,” Fili offered then. “He claims he could save Legolas, but that there is something he needs for cure. Why will you not allow him it?”  
“Because what he asks for is lost,” he answered. “An herb that grew in Southern Mirkwood, surrounding the wicked fortress of Amon Lanc. But it withered, as all living things do there, and none of it has grown since.”  
“But if there is any chance, any chance at all that some might remain, would you not go and see for yourself?”  
And it was here that Fili saw in the great Elven King an old and ancient terror. A terror that had driven him so far north to the edge of the mountains, a terror that had made him what he had become, reclusive, secretive, and wary of the world. But he hesitated, and seemed within him a great turmoil had begun over, and the seas churned in his bright blue eyes, which never reflected the way that men’s or dwarves do, and he sunk again upon his throne in despair.   
“My people cannot go there, for something old and wicked there hunts us and afflicts us.”  
“Then…” Fili spoke, licking his lips nervously. “Allow me to go. I will find this herb and bring it back to the wizard that he might save your son.”  
Thranduil seemed intrigued by pensive. “And what promise do I have that you will return?”  
Fili dared look him in the eyes, and he felt that it was all he could do to not be swallowed up by them. “I swear upon pain of death, I will do all within my powers to help your son.”  
The King softened then and he bowed his head a little before the Dwarf. “Perhaps I have misjudged Durin’s folk. Perhaps it is indeed time that we put aside our feuds, for the good of all.” Fili nodded and felt a wash of relief come over him. “I do not know my way in your woods, King Thranduil, and would require a guide.”  
Here the King gave pause, for he was fearful to risk sending any of his own people into such danger. “You may take the wizard. He knows these forests even better than myself perhaps.”  
Fili blinked, for though this would indeed be useful, the idea of traveling with Radagast the Brown did not give him much courage. “Thank you, your highness.”  
Thranduil gave another pause and then he turned to Fili again, “Come. Perhaps your presence will comfort him.” He put his arm around Fili’s shoulder and the dwarf felt a strange comfort wash over him, and his touch was light and cool like fresh air washing over his skin. He allowed himself, somewhat in a daze, to be lead along the spiraling stair cases to where Legolas lay, stricken to his bed.  
Fili was taken aback at the sight of the elf, for he no longer appeared like the others. His flaxen hair, once luminous and shimmering had become like pale straw, his skin looked grey and bore dark, evil looking veins beneath it, and he looked small and frail, like he would snap in two at being handled too roughly. Fili felt a deep and terrible sadness to see this, and not just for its own sake, but because he knew what Kili would do if he had seen this for himself.   
“Go to him, if he knows your voice. He cannot speak, but I believe that he can hear. Your voice may bring some comfort to him.”  
Fili felt out of place and uncertain, but they looked so hopeful that somehow he might stir the stricken elf upon the bed that he felt it his duty to at least try. He went to his bedside and touched his hand; it felt cold, like death. “Legolas…” he began softly, fumbling for words, “your father says that you can hear me, and if this is true…I promise that I will make this right, and bring you back to Kili. I’m sure he’s searching for you even now, if I know my brother.” He smiled to himself and thought he felt the elf’s finger twitch beneath his. “He loves you dearly, I hope that gives you some light in the darkness that surrounds you.” He stepped away, wishing he could think of something better to say. Glancing around the room he saw many faces greeting his, and started to realize for the first time that he was looking at the other princes of Mirkwood, Thranduil’s remaining sons. They looked at him with a mixture of curiosity, pity, and gratitude. But it was the King who drew his attention.  
“I will have the wizard released and have supplies and weapons brought for you. You will face many dangers in the forest, that I’m sure you know.”   
Fili nodded in thanks, bowed and allowed himself to be escorted from the room. Thranduil dismissed his sons and left himself alone with Legolas. Only his councilor, an elf named Atheo lingered. “Do you think we have hope, your grace?”  
“Not enough.” Thranduil answered bleakly, seating himself beside his son’s prone form. “We are very nearly out of time.”

***


	10. The Shadows of Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the party advances upon Mirkwood, they find it more unwelcoming to visitors than even previously imaginable. Fili and Radagast make their way across the secret Elven roads, knowing that they are being watched by many eyes as whispers of a new horror in the forest arises, and Thranduil makes a choice that he may not be able to undo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "The Tainted" refers to one of the Nine Nazgul riders, which were named and elaborated on in origin for the LotR games and not any original creation of mine. 
> 
> * I am completely at a loss for naming Elves and so Legolas's brothers remain nameless, think of them however you will, I imagine their all slightly varying versions of their adorably hot baby brother and fabulous father.

*** 

They followed the sun as it hastened through the sky, giving them only small glimpses of itself between low and swollen snow clouds. The frozen ground beneath their hooves crunched and cracked, and bowing tree limbs, laden with ice from the storm shed their silvery needles little by little, allowing them to spear the ground below them.  
Gandalf lead on, and as they went they talked very little, for they seemed to be very aware of the passage of time and that they had all too little of it. They came to a steep incline where the ponies slipped and slid upon the icy mud, and they were forced to amble alongside the riverbed beneath the bent trees.  
But Kili was growing impatient and frustrated, and took his pony again upon the rode, spurring him upward despite his difficulty until the hapless horse slipped a shoe and threw his rider. Kili landed in the icy mud with a yelp, and both Thorin and Bofur made to help him, but Thorin waved his friend back, and scolding the youth as he bent to help him.  
“Get off!” Kili barked at him, much to his surprise. “I don’t need your help!” Thorin blinked at him, confused by this sudden hostility. “Your quarrel is with the ice and the muck, not with me. Your haste makes you a fool; you could have broken your neck.”  
“And what do you care if I did?!” Kili snarled back and shoved Thorin, much to the surprise of all. The two stood staring at each other for a time, and Thorin resisted the urge to knock the boy back and show him his place. “Kili…”  
But Kili was already up again and since his pony had slipped a shoe and was no unfit to ride, he turned and took the horse that Thorin had been riding and had spurred up the hill and had taken off at a gallop.   
“What’s gotten into him?” Bilbo gasped, but Thorin only grabbed hold of the Hobbit and lowered him to the ground before taking off on his horse after the boy. “Wait! Wait what about me?”  
“Never fear, Mr. Baggins,” Gandalf said fondly, extending an arm and pulling Bilbo up upon his saddle as well. “You will not be left behind.”

Kili had rode nearly a mile before Thorin was able to gain on him, coming close and wrestling the reigns from his hands, bringing both galloping animals down to a slow trot. “Are you out of your mind?” he grumbled, glaring angrily at his nephew. “Taking off like that! Have you even the faintest idea where you are going?”  
“We are moving too slowly!” the younger dwarf barked.   
“Kili, listen to reason—“  
“How could you let him go?! How?!”  
Thorin said nothing at first, knowing that he had come to the heart of the matter. “With a sword to your chest, you ask me that question? He would have killed you and you would have been just foolish enough to let him!”  
“Then that is my choice! He had no one to protect him and you just…you just let them...” He lowered his head and his shoulders were shaking. Thorin braced him with his hand, wishing he could offer more, “Hate me now if you must, but what choice was I given? They wanted a prisoner, not a corpse, and you would have made yourself one in your anger by antagonizing them. Your brother could not do that, and so I made the choice that I must. But it pains me no less.”  
“I cannot bear it…that I may lose them both!” Kili began to sob heavily, and it seemed the more he tried to hold back the tears the more they came and he felt weak and ashamed in the eyes of his king. Thorin drew himself as near as he could on horseback and waited silently for the storm to pass.   
The others lingered for a moment or two, until that was, Gandalf spotted something on the horizon and rode past them with little Bilbo bouncing along for the ride. “Gandalf? Gandalf what is it? I can’t see—“ But his voice faded and he fell into a stunned silence. They had come to the top of the valley were the borders of Thranduil’s Kingdom ran thickest and sure in heavy lines of birch and gargled oak and willows and the river disappeared beneath its eves.  
Bilbo recalled the forest in flashes of memory, for much of his view of it as this point had been between dunkings in the river as he had rode the barrels containing his escaping friends to freedom, but even he saw that something was drastically wrong.  
The trees, as though made of twine and malleable twigs had woven themselves together into a black thicket, swarming with thorns and clawed branches, making the idea of entering nearly impossible. The light within, though there had never been much to begin with, had turned dark and foreboding and the canopy above them had hardly shed itself of leaves despite the lateness of the season; and instead they had turned back and evil looking.   
“This is powerful magic,” Gandalf nodded looking into the brambles. “Thranduil has effectively shut the door to his domain, and I imagine will not see fit to open it for the likes of us.”  
“How can we possibly pass?” Bilbo asked as the wizard dismounted and approached the trees, tentatively holding out his hand to see if they would attack him. A cold shiver of air passed over him, but nothing else afflicted him as the remains of their company came to join him.   
“Is there another way around?” Thorin asked.  
“I imagine that all of the borders of the forest are liken to this; and any attempt to go around to the lesser known ones would be more time than we can afford.” He withdrew his sword, Galamdring, from its sheath and took a long swipe at the woven branches. They fell away with a crack and a rattle of sundered wood and vine. Several more of these and he cleared enough room for them to step within the threshold, though it became clear quickly that the ponies would only be a burden to them within the forest.  
With trepidation, for they had faced this all before with nearly disastrous results, the Dwarves, Bilbo and Gandalf heaved their supplies upon their backs and then set the ponies upon the path back to the village with a message for Balin and the others, knowing they would find their way well enough alone. There was nothing for it then but to start the long and laborious process of hacking their way into the old wood.  
Bilbo, being the smallest, was able to climb through the smallest openings, using Sting he could cut away the heavy growth of underbrush and see the way of ahead of them. It heartened him to learn that within a yard or so of the brambles, a path did open, clear enough for them to walk without much trouble, though they would have to go one in front of the other and Gandalf would have a difficult time of it for his sheer height. The others drew closer behind him and Thorin kept calling out in a low whistle, which Bilbo answered in kind, to assure that he was still ahead of them and had not gotten into trouble. It would be a long while before either of them would be comfortable letting the other out of their sight.  
The Hobbit moved a little further towards the edge of the path he had cleared and peered along the new one that opened before them. It was almost as if they were walking through a tunnel; the trees bending and lapsing over one another in circular form, their thick roots twining together beneath the earth. Bilbo had heard of pathways such as these in fairytales and story books and heard that they lead to fairy rings and other nether realms from which unwary travelers never returned. It was almost hypnotic, following it with his eyes, for it seemed to go on endlessly without bend or twist, only a continual slope, up, up into the blackness of the forest. He only looked away when he felt Thorin’s hand upon his shoulder.  
“Alright, love?”  
“Alright,” he nodded, the spell broken, leaving him a bit dizzy. “Seems at least one path has been left open. I don’t see any footprints here, but I have yet to see Elves leave any. Do you think it’s safe?”  
“Nothing here is safe,” Thorin answered, “not while the Elven King believes he’s surrounded by enemies, which, believe me, he does.”  
“Sounds familiar.” Bilbo muttered under his breath as he moved forward again and was joined by Kili. “It will take too long to go around the path, we should follow it. Whatever traps the King may have laid, he would not cut off all roads to his own people.” He said.  
“Don’t be so sure,” Gandalf warned. “We go ahead, but be wary. Many eyes are watching us, and all have their own purposes.”

***   
Far to the north, moving from within the heart of the forest, Fili and Radagast were having a better time of things, but felt no less uneasy. Thranduil had his guards guide them to the secret paths and took them over the black enchanted river where they had almost lost Bombur on their last adventure and Fili shivered. But once across it’s shore, the Elves would venture no further. From here Radagast took the lead and Fili followed him, feeling lost and overwhelmed and so terribly homesick for his family and friends that he wanted to sit down and weep, but he never faltered in step and his face remained as stone, eyes nervously flicking left and right, aware of the horrors that dwelled in the shadows here.  
“Tired yet?” the wizard asked after a time. “The forest has a way of doing that to you. It prefers a weary traveler, for they are all too easy to ensnare. But of course you know that,” he chuckled thoughtfully to himself, as though he found it amusing that anyone should have found themselves in such terrible danger as Fili and his company had, only to escape it and still be drawn back it. The dwarf would have gladly pointed out that he hadn’t exactly had a choice in the matter, but it seemed a fruitless effort. Radagast put his arm around him then, consolingly; “There, there, my friend. No one was ever worse off for traveling with a wizard. You must look at the bright side of the situation; we are no longer in the dungeons, are we?”  
“No, I suppose not.” Fili offered him a shadow of smile and took a deep breath. “Everything looks the same. How do you know we are going in the right direction?”  
“I can smell it.” The shabby old man answered and Fili found that he really didn’t want to know more. He tentatively touched one of the mangled branches that hung low over their heads, weaving an impossible thicket through which not even the smallest snowflakes fell. “How is it that the trees have kept their leaves? Does some enchantment keep it from experiencing the seasons.”  
“Oh no, the King would not interfere with that. All things in their own time; but this forest is old and out of time, and it has much of its own magic that keeps the trees from falling completely bare. Too many secrets to keep, if you ask me.”  
Fili nodded. “Do you believe that this herb exists? What is it?”  
“Athelas. A weed, actually,” Radagast replied; “sometimes called ‘King’s Foil’, depending on what region you come from and what stories you here. It used to grow many places, but by and by it diminished until it would only grow in the ruins, for there is its home. It was there before Sauron came, and it remains after his passing.”  
“How can it help him?”  
“Something within the flower’s petals creates as sap from crushing them; this sap is the only thing that can fully naturalize the venom, rendering it’s deadly affects harmless. We shall need at least a dozen or more to make enough.”  
“But it will work?”  
“Oh absolutely…if administered in time.” He fiddled with his beard here, and Sebastian the Hedgehog poked out his little brown snout from between thick mass of hair to have a look about. Fili scratched his own beard and hoped that he would never have the misfortune as to have an animal nest within it. “And what time do you think we have?”  
Radagast was not quick to answer but said eventually; “I expect that he will be dead by the time the moon sets tonight without it.”  
Fili felt his stomach give a painful little lurch and he took the wizard’s arm, trying to hasten him along. “That is far too little time.”  
“Slow down, slow down! You’ll attract something, running the way you are!” Radagast bellowed, waving the dwarf to a stop, and just in time for they nearly tripped over an upraised root and tumbled off the side of a cliff, which dropped down for fifteen feet into a rocky crevice below. Peering down into it now, they could see a mass of webs forming around the dark pit as well as a clutter of bones surrounding the rocks and mossy soil. Fili felt his heart within his ears and was frozen, transfixed, for something stirred faintly in that deep dark place.  
Radagast grabbed him by the collar of his coat and pulled him back, shuffling the dwarf off the beaten path and tucking them both well into the deep roots of a tree. He bade Fili be silent and to hush his breath as much as he could; then he gave a wave of his hand, dispelling some sort of green dust and muttered a few words before settling back in close to him and tucking his pet gently away inside his robes.  
Fili trembled, hearing the soft, nearly silently scuffling of eight long hairy legs upon the road where they had been standing, and the click-click-clicking of pincers, hungry for a meal. He closed his eyes, shaking harder now and wished he were anywhere but here. He still had nightmares of these creatures and the poison that had filled him and his brother, and the how he had nearly suffocated in one of their gauzy tombs while they poked and pinched him. There was more stirring, and one spider was joined by another, and then another, until three of the great unholy masses gathered upon the abandoned road, hissing and speaking to each other in their thin voices that crawled into Fili’s mind and made him want to scream.  
“Something stirred, I heard it just now, upon the road. It woke me from my sleep, But where has it gone, I wonder, the tasty little things?”  
“Not sure, not sure, but we will find it soon enough. Or he will…”  
“So very hungry…”  
“So thirsty for blood. Fresh blood! My darlings, my pretties, my dears, I say we go and seek it out! Before he takes it for his own and leaves us nothing.”  
“Yes, too long, too long we’ve feasted upon nothing but squirrels and dear. I hunger for something fat and thick!”  
And within moments they were gone, and Radgast heard only the creak of their bodies upon the limbs above their heads, drifting off into the distance. “Monstrosities, the lot of them! Never would I harm a living creature of the forest, but for them I take great exception.” He looked to Fili who was shivering and clutching his swords. “If they catch me this time, I hope they kill me,” he found himself muttering, white faced and wet with sweat. “I could not bear the thought of hanging in one of their webs again until I am drained and drying up like a husk of old corn.”  
“No such fate will be yours, Master Fili. For you are with Radagast the Brown! And I will send those devil’s rolling inward, they mess with me.”

*** 

Long shadows were falling across the Elven King’s realm, but there was hardly a whisper within the trees. The Elves, solemn and fearful, were waiting and watching, like birds in a storm. Too many of their kin had already been buried within the earth, their spirits free from the worldly shapes which held them.  
Thranduil had stayed at his ailing son’s side and watched with growing fear as the sickness within him progressed and stole the color of his skin and the warmth from his body, hindered his breath and made him writhe. The sun was falling over the hills to the south, but there had been no word of the dwarf or the wizard. Nightfall would come too soon, and it would be too late. Thranduil shuddered to think what would come then; the final stages of the sickness would make death seem a welcomed friend.  
Nearly three thousand years was many life times to a man or a dwarf, but to an Elf it was like spring time, and his child had all the ages of the world left before him. He had no choice in the fate of his other child, who’s loss stuck in him like a broken knife and would not be healed. But he had a choice now. And for all his pride, for all his vanity and greed, Thranduil had a greater weakness, and that was the love of his kin.   
He bade his children to rest and prepare for the morning and to sleep easily, for not all hope had been diminished. Then he dismissed his guards and his council, leaving himself alone with Legolas. “I can only ask your forgiveness,” he told the stricken elf upon the bed, “I would have your anger and your sorrow if it meant that you would live to see another sun rise. The last of my heirs you are, the last gift your mother gave me before sailing into the West. I will not lose you, whatever fate designs.”  
He removed from within his belt a small, curved dagger, similar to the Barrow Blades of old. It held its own magic and its own secrets, and it was a dangerous weapon in the hands of those ignorant of its skill. Thranduil had taken it for one purpose that night, one that he had disclosed to no one.   
Sending the dwarf Fili and the wizard Radagast out into the woods was a gamble, and he had known it from the very beginning. Though he was touched by the dwarf’s oath and his valor, when Thranduil had done nothing to earn it, he had never had much hope of his return. In truth, he knew what was out there in the woods, for he had dreamt it often these last few nights, and he hoped that the wizard would at least have the sense to lead the dwarf out of the woods, tell him to go and forget and never look back. They did not know that they were out on the road, hunting for their own death. That would be all they would find if it found them; the long shadow of the Tainted One.  
First the Necromancer, then the Wraith had come to the cursed fortress of Dol Guldur, now he had come. Darkness was gathering, darkness that had not stirred in the world in more than a thousand years. But where Nazgul gather, only death will come. His fortress was protected, as his own powers and the enchantments that had been laid down by his father kept it safe from such creatures. But beyond the safety of their immediate realm, Mirkwood was dangerous and swathed in evil. Where the spiders lurked, where all hope fails, where the sun dies and the trees wither…that was where he had sent these ignorant sheep.   
He seated himself beside Legolas’ unmoving form and watched him for a moment, remembering him as he was before this blight had struck him, and he kissed his head and his hair. Then he took the dagger over the flesh of his own hand, breathed deeply and began to speak in the old tongues of the eldest of their race. The words were too old and strange, and even Thranduil scarce comprehended them, but he knew their power.  
He opened a wound upon his hand until the blood flowed easily and freely, and continuing the spell, he laid it upon the afflicted wound on Legolas’ torso. He felt his pulse pounding in his ears like flood waters beating upon the shore, and his son’s body contorted abruptly and a hideous gasp wrenched from his throat. And then Thranduil felt it. The poison had begun to move, responding to his offering. It drained from its host, rushing into the fresh wound, and the King bellowed at the pain that greeted him, but he kept still and forced all his concentration upon it. Terrible black veins appeared upon his skin, rushing from the source and creeping up to his shoulder and torso, crawling up his neck until the edges of his fair face were framed by the wicked looking black vines. He groaned and shuddered, but he would not yield. He would take as much of it as he could, but taking all would mean instant death. It had grown stronger inside him, hungry to extinguish his immortal life.   
But strong as it may be, Thranduil was a High Elf, and would not be overcome so easily as it willed. He could master it for a time, though it may cost him everything to do so. At last he could take no more, and he fell away, collapsing upon the floor.  
Upon the bed Legolas began to breathe easier, and his color began to return to normal. Light came back to him, and after a few moments he stirred and opened his eyes. He felt weak and disoriented, and the world felt as though it were pushing down upon him in a way it never had before. For a moment he could not make sense of where he was or how he had come here, and his last thoughts had been of dark places and unsettling dreams. And then his eyes turned upon the body on the floor.  
“What have you done…?” His movements were sluggish and halted, but he fell from the bed and moved over his father’s stricken body, clutching and shaking him. “What have you done!?”  
Thranduil managed a dull smile, but his eyes were clouded white and he did not see. He touched Legolas’ face, “I saved you, my son.”  
“Oh please no, please, no!” He held his father’s hand and began to weep, for the first time in all his life. “I wish you had left me, Ada. You’ve trapped yourself in a burning house with no escape, your body is dying all around you!”  
“It does not matter…” He felt the tears upon his son’s face and his eyes seemed almost remorseful. “I was not quick enough…you are not as you were and never will be again. Mortality has touched you, and I cannot undo it.” As his son gathered him up and tried to make him comfortable, Thranduil would say only that he loved him, truly and dearly, and that he did not regret this fate, however evil it might be.   
There was a stirring beyond the door and Tauriel and two of his brothers entered, fearing the worst had come sooner than expected. Legolas looked upon them with a tear stained face, and all were shocked into silence. “What time is there? How long do we have?” he demanded.  
“Till moonset…but, Legolas…”  
The prince ignored them, rose shakily to his feet and made his way past. “My bow and quiver, I require them.”  
“For what? You don’t intend to leave, you are not yourself.”  
“And never will I be again,” he muttered, and they noticed that he did not shine the way he used to, and that his eyes, still blue as clear water, did not reflect visions of the forest and stars the way they once had. His brothers were almost afraid of him, but he ignored them, for he had no time to explain what even he did not understand.   
“Wait, brother, the dwarf might still return.”  
“Dwarf? What dwarf?”  
“Fili, he said his name was. One of the Durin line. Father took him prisoner after you were wounded, and he sent him into the forest with the wizard to try to find the Athelas weed to cure you.”  
He gawked for a moment, his head spinning with what had transpired before turning and hastening to the main halls, taking weapons from the guards who stood by in idle shock. “Then I have even less time than I guessed. I will have to be swift.”  
“You mustn’t brother! Father has spoken of what lingers in the ruins, if you are caught there in this state you are dead for certain!”  
“Then I will meet it.” He clasped his hand to his eldest brother’s side, “You must stay here with the others, and do not follow me. You are king in his place, and should the worst befall us you will be needed.”  
“You cannot go, I forbid it!”  
But Legolas only smiled and turned, fleeing through the front gates with the others staring after him.

***


	11. Tainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The converging parties upon Dol Guldur encounter an old evil that even Gandalf did not expect to find, but more foul things lurk in the darkness of the old forest strong hold of Sauron than are anticipated by Dwarves, Hobbits, or Wizards.

*** 

Their arms were growing heavy with toil as they continued down the long path, finding it blocked in intervals of brambles and thorns and thick branches. Bilbo thought uncomfortably of the time when he had been a wee hobbit and had fallen, while playing, into a prickly bush and come out covered in burs. The tiny scratches that covered his hands, legs and feet only became noticeable by the small smears of red, or the sting of them when his sweat covered them. Poor Bofur had nearly lost his mustache when it became snared in a thicket, and oh how he had fussed when Gandalf threatened to trim it, but they had gone and pulled him out somehow, leaving little tufts of him behind in the trees.  
“The trees grow thinner here,” Dwalin noted then, for indeed they did, and they could feel the cold again and see the sunlight as it had begun to sink over the hill, hastening the dark.  
“Are we close to the fortress?” Kili asked nervously.  
“No, far from,” Gandalf noted wearily. “Where the trees thin here, it is because nothing will grow.” He stooped to take between his old wrinkled fingers some of the rocky soil. “We are close to the ruins, but perhaps that is where we need to be.”  
“How could that be?” Kili grumbled.  
“The cure for Black Venom is the same for all ills that come from Mordor and the great blight upon that land. Athelas, the healing flower of the old kings of Numeanor, that is what Legolas requires.”  
“Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on then! What does it look like, what do we need?” But his questions were not at once answered, for the wizard had gone still and quiet like a deer watching in the forest at the sound of hunters. “Something is coming.”  
“Spiders?”  
“No. And it is not of Elvish nature either. We must get off the road.” He ushered them down from the path, skirting low into a ditch, but there was little place to hide. At last they were forced on their bellies beneath the thickets, where they lay obscured by the woven, intertwining branches. Bilbo however, did not hide. “I will go ahead and have a look,”  
“You will not.” Thorin grumbled back, but the Hobbit had already made up his mind. “It’s alright, I have my ring, remember?” He slipped it upon his finger and vanished before the King’s eyes. Thorin made a swipe for him, but Bilbo was already out of reach.  
As quietly and carefully as Hobbit feet can go, Bilbo made his way back out onto the road listening intently for movement. The world was a shadowy rush around him, as though he had been plunged into clear water. It gave him a strange and wary feeling, as though he were treading upon the edge of something so much larger than himself that he could not comprehend; a tiny bird adrift on the vast sea.  
In the thicket, Gandalf shifted uneasily. “Go and get him back,” he muttered to Thorin. “Something is not right, and that ring won’t save him. In fact, I feel…its magic is drawing something nearer.”  
Both Thorin and Kili moved from their hiding spot and the other two made to follow, but Gandalf bade them to stay, too much movement would certainly draw it to them. Kili kept his arrow at the ready, moving behind his Uncle’s shoulder as Thorin crept along and tried to make out where the Hobbit was hiding. He whistled low, and heard a slight misplacement of leaves upon the forest floor.  
They felt it then; the disturbance that Gandalf felt, and the wicked scent of death wafted over them. It sickened Bilbo so that he had to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Now his courage faltered and he was afraid. Something was coming from far down the bend, something that moved as a ghost in this world and carried with it the putrid scent of decay.  
Thorin and Kili stared, transfixed. Something red was growing in the dim shadow of the path, as though a ball of fire were swelling beyond the trees. Thorin gripped his sword and whistled again for Bilbo, not knowing the Hobbit was but a short distance from him, transfixed in terror. “What is it?” Kili asked dryly.  
The sickening smell grew stronger and an evil wind blew over them, and they felt sick and hopeless. The dwarves kept their ground, though their knees shook, and now Bofur and Dwalin had come to the edge of the ditch along with Gandalf, all watching. No form had appeared before them, but they could feel the wicked thing drawing closer.  
And somewhere, unseen, Bilbo emitted a cry that sent a cold spike through Thorin’s heart. “Bilbo! Bilbo where are you! Reveal yourself, come to me, now!”

Bilbo screamed because he could do little else. He had seen it now, the terrible thing that was lurching towards them. To his eyes it looked like a spirit, a specter to be found in bedtime tales to frighten children into obeying their mothers and fathers. It’s white form looked human, at least in the baser sense, for it was deformed and malaise, as if even in death a sickness hovered over it. It looked up the road, and it’s horrible dead eyes found the Hobbit, standing there, and Bilbo knew that it saw him plain as day, for this was a creature that did not dwell within the bonds of their world, but only passed through it, tainting all it touched.  
It shrieked then, a terrible, horrible sound and it reached out a clawed, nearly skeletal hand as it advanced. Bilbo clutched his ears and screamed again, for he was too frightened to move. He turn to run, only to be suddenly tackled by Thorin. The dwarf crushed him to the ground and fumbled blindly with him until the ring upon Bilbo’s finger was dislodged in the fall and went rolling across the path and disappeared into the grass. The shadow world dissipated before his eyes and Bilbo was himself again in Thorin’s arms, but they were not yet out of danger. Kili fired towards the growing swell of darkness that was advancing upon them, but none of his arrows found their mark. They turned to ash and dust upon reaching the wicked aura, and as it came closer they saw a face within the red and swirling blackness. A dead face, with its mouth open, shrieking as though it would bring the forest down upon them, and the sky and the clouds and the stars and all of heaven would fall and crumble.  
Bofur grabbed Kili from behind and yanked him from the path as Thorin gave a mad swipe at the thing with Orcrist, but the sword could not touch it. The billowing shadow turned, as if noticing him for the first time, gaping and staring at him and Bilbo laid beneath him, breathless and frightened but unable to look away.  
“Be Gone!” Gandalf bellowed, his own voice like a crashing wave upon the world, and the thing snarled at him, attempting to gain some sort of earthly form. It looked more and more like a black cloaked figure as it stood their upon the path, and it’s rancid breath shook them and made them weak. The woods around them withered, trees cracked and rotted before their eyes, and all green left the world.  
But Gandalf stood his ground, “I know what you are,” the old wizard snarled, “and what hell has drawn you up from where you belong I don’t know. But I will send you back there, to the depths!” The stone affixed to his staff glowed brilliantly and banished the dark thing’s form, returning it to black smoke, and the angry shrieks grew dimmer as it whirled away, disappearing along the path, racing upward towards the rolling hill in the distance.  
For several minutes after it’s passing, none of the company moved. Kili had fainted dead away in Bofur’s arms, and even the cheery good hearted dwarf could not lift his head for several long minutes, for he shook and whimpered. Dwalin lifted himself from where he had fallen to his knees and shouldered his hammer again, looking around as in shock. “What in witchery is this? This is black magic, no work of Elves.”  
“Indeed,” Gandalf wheezed, propped against his own staff. He looked as though all the ages of the world had passed over him for a moment, and he was but leathery skin and old grey string stretched across bone, but by and by he returned to himself and breathed easily again. “It is so much worse than I feared. What has drawn them out? We banished him to the dark corner of the world…”  
Thorin was still crouched over Bilbo, slowly gathering themselves. Bilbo shivered violently as he sat in Thorin’s arms, “It saw me,” he whispered. “That devil saw me, even with the ring. It looked right through me and I saw death. Terrible, unmerciful death!”  
“Shh, I am with you now, you are safe.” Thorin shushed him, looking to the others worriedly. “But I do not think you should try the ring again. Magic begets magic, and we cannot take any chances here.”  
Bilbo nodded slowly, feeling more and more like himself, and groped about the grass for his fallen trinket, which he tucked away inside his vest pocket, safe and sound and thought no more about it. If he had only known then, what it was he carried, he might have left it lay there forever.  
As they struggled to their feet, Bilbo saw that Thorin’s dark hair had a new streak of white upon it, and that his hand that held his sword looked as though it had been burned. Gandalf came to them and looked over the wound, but it was superficial and easily cared for; “You are fortunate, Thorin Oakenshield. The Elvish blade protected you, or this might have cost you your hand.”  
“What was that thing, wizard?”  
“Something not of this time. Things are much bleaker than I had guessed.”  
Kili was coming back to himself, as were Bofur and Dwalin and they stood huddled together upon the road as Gandalf pointed up through the trees; “Unwise as it may seem, we must follow it. I know where it is going, and there we shall find what we require for a cure.”  
“We have to go after that thing?” Bofur gasped, “You’re daft old man, simply daft. I say we turn and try to find the King’s stronghold. Fili may need us!”  
“We will be of no use to either of them without an offering of help, Master Bofur. Collect your courage my dear friends, you will need it. We go to Dol Guldur.”

***

The sun was passing into the West, and the hours were waning. Were it not for Radagast, the dwarf would have lost all direction long ago, but the wizard plowed on, mostly talking and muttering to himself or singing strange little tunes that the dwarf did not recognize. After a time, he began to realize that they were traveling up hill, for the soil here was rockier and the trees slid downward and towered upwards straight and tall and singular; unaffected by the Elven King’s enchantment.  
This was however, only because a stronger magic lingered here; something dark and forbidden. Radagast shivered as their feet began to leave behind the soil and instead trod upon cold crumbling stone.  
Fili looked up at the ruins of the old fortress before him, black and twisted, ravaged by time, magic and war, and although the evil that had lingered here had been banished again to the shadows, it’s mark had left a stain upon it, He thought he heard whispers on the icy air that flowed through the dark spires and crumbling walls, for here the snow fell cold and wet upon the land, and even its pale purity seemed to dull and turn to grey over the cursed place. He looked back, now seeing far over the forest floor to the many miles they had somehow crossed. Time was strange here as it passed both swiftly and slowly, but overhead the sun had sunk low, and the light was already beginning to fade.  
Fili followed the stunt little man through the ruins, winding between crumbling doorways and arches and being mindful of sudden drops within the flooring that disappeared into dark and desolate lower levels of the structure. There was evidence of a great battle here, a recent one no less. Fili saw scorch marks upon the stone and rock cloven by steel. The place seemed to hum and thrive with otherworld magic, the likes most mortal things never encounter except in their dreams and in small glimpses in twilight hours. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Fili asked his companion, and Radagast nodded his head.  
“Oh yes…”  
“What happened here?”  
“A great battle, just a short while ago, no less. Something foul took up residence within the ruins, and brought with it those eight legged beasts of which you are so fond of. They seemed to have been breeding here; for what ill purpose I daren’t imagine. But then the White Council came to put an end to it, and banished the blighter back to the night from whence it came.”  
“I’ve never heard of the White Council.”  
“Few have,” Radagast nodded. “It is a meeting of the guardians of my order, the wisest and most powerful.”  
“Did you attend?”  
Radagast gave him an embarrassed little smile; “Oh no. not I, master Fili. Such meddling in the affairs of others is of no interest to me. I learned long ago that my talent was in simpler creatures. They are pure of heart you see, and do not make war or deliberately try to destroy one another.”  
Fili nodded with quiet understanding, thinking perhaps what a different world it would be if more of them were like the Brown Wizard. “Where do we search first?” he asked then, eager to be free of this evil feeling place and on their way back to the Elven King’s palace.  
“The dungeons; it loves the shade and the damp.”  
“Of course.” Fili rolled his shoulders and tried to steel himself for the unpleasant task at hand, replying; “I hope you appreciate this, brother, wherever you are. Next time, you can go questing to save your own elf…” He looked up then and realized to his great terror that he was utterly alone. Radagast had vanished as if into thin air and there was not a breath of the wizard in the old dead fortress.  
“Radagast? Radagast! Oh, where are you, you silly--!” but as he turned the corner he found something that turned his blood to water and his bones to meal. What it was seemed unclear to the dwarf, but it was not of the living. It was a creeping shadow with no face, but eyes seemed to seer out of the blackness, empty and soulless and full of malice. Fili seemed to know what it would do if it ever reached him.  
“What is that?” he found himself coughing, grabbing his swords and holding them out defensively in front of him. The wizard was closer to the hooded shadow than he, muttering something with his hand out in front of him, and the dwarf saw that his fingers were bloody. “Radagast! What is that?!”  
“The Tainted!” the wizard wheezed and he turned his eyes upon the dwarf and Fili saw that this was an enchantment that was beyond him. “Run! And don’t look back!”  
Fili bolted, but he did not leave the ruins, though everything within him screamed to do so. He decided that somehow he must get around behind the creature and take it by surprise if he could. He circled around the crumbling wall, darting up a barren and crumbling stairway that lead to the remains of a parapet. The shadow seemed to follow him as if it surrounded him everywhere, and through Radagast’s shrieks and bellows of words he did not understand, he came to realize that this creature was no living monster but some wraith conjured up from the depths to torture and torment.  
Fili waved his sword and caught the ghostly being across its neck, but all it did was shriek so horribly that it drew a trickle of blood from the dwarves ears and sent him stumbling and screaming in kind.  
His blind steps lead him to less sure footing, and suddenly the old stone gave way below his feet and he fell downward, swallowed alive by the darkness.  
It was not a far fall, but when he reached the bottom it was with a shout and a moan, and the breath was knocked from his lungs and for a several seconds he could do nothing by lay as he had fallen, The horror that had been chasing him had dissipated for the moment, but Radagast was still doing battle above, for he could hear the wizard’s shouts and the clang of his sword. He tried to get to his feet, taking stock of where he had fallen.  
The cold grey sky opened above his head, high and unattainable. The walls that raised up around him were smooth with rain and wear and though Fili dug his fingers and toes into the stone, he could not find a foothold. He was trapped within the pit. Anger filling him he struck again and again at the black stone with his sword, causing sparks to fly and wounds to appear upon the rock. He shouted to Radagast to come and help, but the wizard was occupied elsewhere.  
Something shifted in the dark. Fili held his breath and clutched the hilt of his blades, hardly daring to turn around, afraid of what would greet him. Whatever it was rolling in the blackness, sluggish and chained, making a low, pitiful rumble that was something like a sob caught in the back of your throat.  
“Come no closer; I will strike you dead where you stand!”  
The thing in the shadows inched into the light, squinting and wild-eyed, for it had not seen the brightness of day, even one as dimmed as this, in many long years. It paused there, panting heavily and coiled upon itself, not sure if it should come any closer.  
As Fili’s eyes adjusted to the light, he began to make out more of its shape and was startled. Though it was starved, warped and deformed, the creature in the shadows was almost familiar to him. It was, or had once been, a dwarf, as he knew now by his great ragged beard and the shape of its ragged, bony hands and short but stout legs. There was a terrible wound over one of it’s staring eyes that must have left it blind, and it’s chains had bitten into its flesh, leaving raw and terrible wounds on its wrists and ankles.  
The chains rattled as it drew a little further into the light, still hunched and apprehensive. Rags of clothes hung off its marred back, but Fili thought that some of the old and ruined cloth looked familiar to him.  
“Poor creature…I will not harm you. Are you a prisoner here?”  
It gurgled something back at him and lumbered a little further into the light, and Fili saw that there was blood around the deranged dwarf’s mouth and nose. Thick streaks of it marbled it’s grey beard, he realized that it was fresh. Fili did not lower his sword; “I can help you. Do you know a way out of here? My friends are in trouble and I must help them. I will help you too…”  
It lurched a little closer, and Fili saw what was in its mind. It was no longer any semblance of a dwarf, but something carnal and feral, and worst of all, hungry. Still, the old dwarf was unarmed, and Fili had all his weaponry at hand. Above them the battle was growing in intensity, and Fili had no idea who might come out the victor.  
The creature took advantage of his distraction then and lunged with surprising strength. Fili would have killed him easily, but something in him could not, and so he struck it with the blunt side of his blade, knocking him to the side. The former dwarf took the slack of his chains and waved them, managing to catch his sword and yank it from his hands. Startled, Fili found himself backing against the wall. “I don’t want to kill you, please listen to me!”  
But the prisoner of the tower had long passed beyond listening and reason. It whirled it’s chains again and caught the other dwarf by the arm and tried to drag him forward, though he was younger and stronger and resisted. Above them the shrieking intensified and the chained dwarf cowered and grew maddened by the presence of the shadow above them. A bolt of lightning, which came not from the sky but from elsewhere crashed above their heads, striking down idle rock and sending the stones down into the pit with them.  
Fili tried to cover his head and look for shelter, but he could not break the grip the prisoner’s chains had upon him and so was only able to push himself flat beneath one of the eves of the broken floor. Rock rained down on them, and Fili was struck several times by the debris. He tumbled stunned and bruised to the floor and lay there unmoving.  
The other dwarf, however, stirred and began to crawl forward, seeing that it’s potential prey was downed. He had just reached Fili, who cried out, for he was pinned beneath the rocks and could not reach his fallen sword, when a shadow fell upon them. There was a flash of steel, cold, blue and bright like quicksilver, and the mad dwarf fell to the side, bleeding and moaning. Fili stared up into the face of his uncle then as he crouched there, panting in the dark with Orcrist in his hand.  
“Thorin?”  
“Fili!” He knocked away the debris that covered him and lifted him, and when the younger dwarf could not hold his footing he upheld him, clasping him close. “Never fear, we are with you now.”  
Fili nodded against his neck, just happy to see him again. Above them, he saw others gathering; Dwalin and Bofur and lastly Kili.  
“Fili!”  
“Kili!”  
Thorin turned and helped lift the battered dwarf up out of the hole, and Kili reached for his brother’s hand and yanked him upward, falling back with the effort and letting him crash upon him, rolling upon the rock as they embraced. “You idiot! You complete ass! Why do I always have to come and save you?!”  
“Me?! I was trying to save your ridiculous lover, you marvelous idiot! You should be thanking me!”  
Kili did by knocking their heads together and clasping the older boy as tightly as he dared, almost afraid he would vanish. “I am lost without you, you know that. Don’t ever leave me alone again. I need you.”  
“I won’t ever leave you, brother. Ever.”  
Dwalin and Bofur grinned, glad to see them safe and together again. Dwalin turned towards the hole and made to help Thorin out, but Thorin was not reaching for him. Instead he was crouched over the wounded thing upon the floor. “Thorin? What is it?”  
Eventually the King looked up at him, and his face was pale and stricken. “My father…this is my father.”

***

The last setting light of the sun was gone and twilight covered them like a shroud. Gandalf paced worriedly amongst them, for he knew not what to do now, his mind was torn in so many directions at once.  
Radagast had taken injury in the battle with The Tainted, and laid dumb and useless upon the rock and could not be woken. The Black Breath was on him and had rendered him senseless; he was only fortunate that it was not a more severe case, or Gandalf might have worried.  
The Tainted had been driven off, for now, by Radagast and the arrival of Gandalf himself and the others. Apparently, this specter was not yet strong enough to defend itself against so many enemies, and for that alone the wizard was grateful, for he would have made an equal match for any of them at the height of his power.  
The Witch King’s appearance here had been disturbing, unsettling, but now two wraiths in one place…what was here that drew them? The Necromancer had been driven away for all he could tell, and could not aide in raising these nightmares from the shadows where they had been banished for so many long years. What was drawing them in then? The only thing left in the ruins had been what remained of Thrain, son of Thror, father of Thorin Oakenshield.  
He had been chained there, caught by the Necromancer years ago, and had somehow survived all this time, though he was far from the same Dwarf. In fact, there was very little dwarf left of him. He had become a savage, mad thing, knowing little else but survival and misery.  
As they brought him up from the pit which he had been lurking in and stretched him upon the ground, Thorin turned angrily to the wizard. “Did you know of this? Did you know of his fate when you brought me that key?”  
The wizard leaned heavily upon his staff and sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid I did.”  
“And you left him to die here?!”  
“He was already dying when I found him, Thorin. What you see before you is not Thrain as he was, but a shell, given life by the dark magic within this place. He does not see you, he does not hear you. When I found him all those long months ago he was on the brink of death and knew not his own name, nor where he had come from, nor even why he was here. He had been tortured into madness, but all he spoke of was the key and the map, which were given to you.”  
Thorin looked over the ravaged body upon the ground. It breathed, it seemed as though it lived, but Gandalf was right, it was an illusion, a cursed thing. After so long, to learn that this evil fate was what had befallen his father, Thorin found he could not even weep, but instead he felt a deep ache in his heart, which he knew could never be mended.  
Fili and Kili looked on above him, for Fili, only in his earliest years of life, could remember even a small semblance of his grandfather, and Kili had never met him at all. “If he is not Thrain, then what is he?” Fili asked.  
“A shell, a ghost.” Thorin sighed, folding the body’s hands over its chest and doing his best to give the husk some dignity as it shuddered and died, leaving the shell empty once more. “This Necromancer is responsible for this? To what point and purpose? Or does it simply delight in the misfortunes of others?”  
“It does indeed, but that is not it’s true purpose. It remains a mystery, even to I.” Gandalf nodded and he cast about then and saw that they were short a member. “Bilbo? Bilbo where are you?”  
“Up here!”  
They looked and found the Hobbit standing at one of the old parapet’s holding in his fists several hefty bundles of a green plant with small white flowers. “Fili! Is this the herb?”  
“Yes!” the dwarf sighed, and Kili gripped his arm in excitement, for it seemed that hope was restored. “Clever Mr. Baggins, always there when we need you!” As Bilbo descended, very cautiously, the stairs it was Kili who grabbed hold of him and swept him into an awkward but deeply heartfelt embrace. “Thank you, thank you my little friend. You kept your wits when he had all lost ours!”  
“Seems to be my job,” Bilbo chuckled. “And I am always happy to oblige for you and your brother. You are as much my family as any of my own blood.” The two beamed at him and swept him into an embrace between the two of them which made the Hobbit squeak a little in fear he might be crushed. But they were brought back quickly to the late hour and the unanswered riddles at hand.  
“The moon is up in the East, we need to start back if we have any hope of delivering the plant in time.” Fili noted urgently.  
“What of Radagast? And of Thrain?” Bofur asked, looking uncertain.  
“We will take Radagast with us, a few breaths of those flowers should revive him; he is more resistant to the wraith’s magic than most. As for the so called body of Thrain…” he looked to Thorin, awaiting reprisal; “I am sorry, but we must leave him here. Time is too precious.”  
Thorin nodded dimly, seeming cold. “Lay the body in the rubble below the earth and cover it with stones. That is the least I can do. A proper funeral has already been and gone. Now the memory must go with it.”

 

***


	12. The Spider's Parlor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rejoined with Fili, the Company hastens all to the Elven King's halls with little time left to save Thranduil or Legolas. But the forest has not finished having it's say yet, and the Spiders of Mirkwood never give up a meal without a fight.

*** 

The moon above them hung low and swollen over the landscape as it rose heavily into the sky, looking down upon the weary band as they descended once more into the darkness of the forest, and its silver rays were bright, offering a kindness to them even as it hastened doom, lighting their path where it may.  
One in front of the other they went, Gandalf, followed by Fili, followed by Kili, then Thorin and Bilbo, then Bofur and Dwalin and at last poor Radagast, who stumbled and fumbled behind them, weary, angry and muttering to himself in odd little riddles that vexed the dwarf in front of him and made him want to kick him.   
They listened in turn to what had transpired upon their journeys and by and by Kili grew more anxious to reach their destination, for he was heart sick with worry for Legolas. Fili had spared his brother the details of the elf’s condition, not wanting to see the heartbreak in his eyes and needing to give him whatever hope he could. After all, Kili would have done the same for him.  
Thorin walked in silence and said nothing at all, and gave only the slightest of nods here and there to show he had been listening to the tales. Bilbo staid close to him and kept nervously fiddling with the ring hidden in his pocket, wishing that he could put it on and disappear once more, taking the road ahead to warn them of danger. He felt helpless and small, and he hated such feelings for they troubled him often. The ring at least, made him feel useful. But he could not shake the way that wicked thing had looked at him, and how the world around him withered. He hoped very much he would never encounter such blackness again, but knew it was not up to him.  
His hand slipped into Thorin’s and the dwarf gave it a gentle squeeze, drawing Bilbo a bit nearer to him as they walked, but he did not look at him, for his eyes were fixed watchful forward. By and by they grew weary and the way seemed long and dark without end. Gandalf began to pause often, lifting his staff aloft, but even it could not avail him in this darkness. They paused and listened, and even Radagast had gone silent. A cold wind rustled the thick leaves above their heads, and they danced silver and sharp in the tiny glimpse of the moonlight. But the blackness around them did not ebb.   
“We are surrounded,”  
Gandalf spoke this as calmly as he could, for any sudden movements of panic would have ended things very quickly. The party did not stop walking, but slowly came to realize that they were indeed watched and enclosed from all sides, and that the darkness moved around them, shifting fat bodies on long spindly legs. The spiders were drawing the flies ever deeper and deeper into their web.  
“Do not acknowledge them.” Gandalf spoke quietly and evenly. “They are biding their time and won’t strike before they have to. There is another path up ahead that leads down closer to the river. If we take it we can—“  
“GANDALF!”  
Bilbo saw it too late. The fat spider, crouched above their heads upon the high branches, swung it’s great bulbous form down and pierced the wizard with its poisonous sting. Gandalf groaned, managing a wave of his sword, which knocked the fat thing from the tree and sent it sprawling on its back upon the road, kicking and hissing, but then he fell to the ground beside it and did not move, paralyzed and still.  
Kili was quick this time, drawing arrows in rapid fire from his quiver and losing them into the dark creatures that made to ensnare them. The air filled with screeches of dismay as they unleashed their weapons, quicker than the spiders expected, and felled five or six before they could get close.  
Radagast, still dim and stumbling, found himself all too quickly ensnared, pinned to the ground by a wad of webbing which kept him from using his sword or his staff. He would have been poisoned like Gandalf, but Dwalin defended him, wielding his axe in a deadly arch towards any that came near, and no amount of the sticky substance they spat at him could keep him pinned for more than a moment.  
Fili swung his double blades, wild and furious. As one of the spiders rushed him, it’s many terrible eyes gleaming and pincers clicking with rage and hunger, he let out a roar and leapt upon it’s back, driving one of his swords into the thing’s back so far that it pinned it to the forest floor while the other lopped off it’s horrible head. He would have been attacked from behind had Bofur not been quick to swing his own hammer, sending the fat little sniper rolling into a tree before effectively smashing it’s brains out.   
Orcrist and Sting flashed in the dark, finding more and more targets for their blades to tastes until they were both blackened with blood. The spiders were swollen, mad and starving and seemed born from the darkness. “There are too many, we can’t keep this up!” Thorin shouted to the others, especially Bilbo, who was fighting back to back with him. “Your ring, burglar! It might be our only chance for escape!”  
Bilbo knew this but his hand trembled. He remembered again the Wraith and how it had been drawn to him and he was afraid, more afraid than he was of the spiders. What if it returned when he did? What if he saw those horrible eyes in the darkness?   
He hesitated and Thorin yelled his name again, but Bilbo before Bilbo could slip it upon his finger, he was forced to defend himself, slashing Sting high as another spider swung down upon him and nearly pierced him with his stinger. He gave it a deadly swipe of the blue glowing steel and it screamed and Kili ended it with an arrow it one of its massive eyes.   
He made to reach for the next arrow and found quite to his shock that his quiver was empty. Snarling in frustration, he let the bow drop and turned to his daggers, but they would be of little use in this battle, for getting close enough to use them was all too dangerous. Fili gave him as wide a berth as he might, but Kili could not do more than cut off a leg here or there.   
The spiders were in a frenzy and they were coming more and more, determined that they would have a meal tonight. Kili was suddenly knocked from behind them and forced to the ground, a thick wad of webbing covering his legs. He kicked frantically and cut at it with his dagger, but the spider was on him too quickly. He shouted for help, but Fili was trapped in battle and could not break free and the others were too far to reach him.  
The dark haired Dwarf braced himself for the prick of that awful stinger, but it did not come. There was a rushing of air and the monster shrieked in pain and scuttled backwards, bucking it’s great body as if trying to be free of something. Kili looked up in disbelief. Upon the back of the great spider was perched Legolas Greenleaf, firing his arrows into the great head of the spider as it howled in its death throes.  
“It can’t be!”  
Legolas leapt down from the twitching body and dropped beside Kili, cutting him free from his bonds as the dwarf gawked at him. “Here you are, hastening all to my rescue, and yet it is I who is turning up to save you. You’re not much of a rescuer, you know.” He smiled at him and Kili laughed and embraced him as he stood, but there was little time for reunions or explanations. “Run in front of me and I will keep them down,” the elf told his lover as they attempted to cut a path through the enemy lines that they might flee to safety.  
Bilbo looked up in surprise and delight when an arrow passed him, catching in the mouth of the villain about to bite him. “Legolas!”  
And even Thorin turned in disbelief, keeping his head enough to lift Bilbo up out of harms way before another swab of webbing ensnared him. Fili remained defending Gandalf, who was frozen but watching upon the forest floor, or the spiders would have carried him off as a consolation prize.   
“Light! Light! We must have light!” Radagast began to shriek from his own fallen place upon the ground.  
“What light do you think we have?!” Dwalin barked back at him, and his skin was thickly covered in the black blood of his slain foes. “It’s black as pitch here!”  
“They fear Sting!” Bilbo replied, and indeed the sword gleamed brilliant blue in his hand and the spiders were danced and hissed, for they remembered well the wicked brightness of the blade that felled so many of them before. But they were too hungry and too angry to be afraid now. One of them spat a wad of webbing at the Hobbit, and it caught his hand and loosed the sword from it, sticking it to a tree. Bilbo cried out and tried to free it, but he only managed to ensnare his own hand.  
Thorin managed to free his hand from the webbing, but as he swung his own blade back a second time to free Bilbo’s weapon, the spider’s caught it in their weapon and pulled it from his hand. The King snarled at them and turned to rush the snickering attercop, grabbing it’s pinchers with bare hands and bellowed in anger, twisting it’s head so hard that it flipped the creature’s great body over onto it’s back, allowing Bofur to leap in and finish the job.   
“Light! Light!”  
“He’s right, it’s the only thing that will banish them,” Legolas breathed next to Kili.  
“But how?” he turned and saw Gandalf upon the ground and his hand was twitching. Kili blinked and realized he was motioning towards his fallen staff, and his wide eyes met the dwarf’s and Kili understood. “Cover me!” He darted under Legolas’ arm and went running to where his brother stood defending the old man. “Fili! The staff!”  
The blonde dwarf turned and saw the wizard’s staff upon the ground. He dove only just in time to reach it before the spider’s tried to pull it into the darkness, seeming to sense their plan, and threw it at Kili, who caught it deftly and turned just in time to stab another advancing foe.  
“What now?”  
Here Legolas turned to Dwalin, “Radagast, can you use this!”  
“I shall surely try!”  
Dwalin nodded and did his best to free as much of the man as he was able, and he was nearly over come before doing so, were it not for Thorin’s quick work. Kili tossed the wizard the staff and Radagast did his best to lift it. A feeble shine came from the stone within, for this was not his staff and he could not bring it to full power. His own had fallen and was too entrenched within the enemy’s position to be retrieved. The light made the spiders hiss and shriek and they broke back for a moment, but it was not enough to drive them away. Indeed, with the little light that the staff provided, they could see the extent to which their foes had surrounded them. There were not dozens of spiders, but hundreds within the trees, watching, waiting for a chance, and all around them they had spun a web so thick that even if the lines were broken, they would not have escaped.  
“Blast it! It’s not enough!”  
And then Bilbo remembered something. Reaching into his vest, he darted away towards Radagast. “Here! Here!” He drew from within the depths of his coat the Arkenstone, which gleamed even in the blackness surrounding them. Bilbo hastened all to the wizard’s side, nearly being ensnared twice, but Thorin was never far behind, keeping him safe.   
“Excellent, Halfling! Hold it aloft, to the light!”  
Bilbo could not reach the height of the staff, but he scurried upon a tree branch and stretched his arm out, holding the gleaming gem up against the sputtering light of the wizard’s staff. Almost at once it’s brilliance increased a thousand fold and they were forced to shield their eyes for the blinding brightness of it.  
The spider’s screamed and fell over themselves in an attempt to escape the brightness which blinded them, and many caught themselves in their own web trying to flee, being trampled by their fellows.   
Within moments darkness had receded from the woods, and the moon over ahead came out from behind dark clouds and shone itself down upon the scene through the growing cracks in the trees.   
Bilbo retracted the stone, watching as the light faded and dimmed around them, though the gem in his hand continued to twinkle. Taking a breath, he suddenly found himself looking worriedly toward Thorin, afraid of what he might see.  
But the Dwarf was neither angry, nor even looking at him just then. His attentions had turned towards Kili who was bent over Legolas, whom had slumped once more to the ground. “Are you hurt? Did they sting you?” the dwarf gasped, holding tight to his lover, but Legolas shook his head, feeling so weak now that he could barely lift it. Fili noticed a that the prince’s hands were turning grey and cold and black veins began to reappear, creeping slowly back up towards his upper body and head. “He’s dying…” he murmured, much to his own shock.  
“No! No, I won’t let you,” Kili snapped, keeping Legolas close. The elf groaned but mustered what was left of his waning strength. “Don’t worry about me, it is my father we must save. He took a great deal of the poison from my body and he will surely die of it soon.”  
“I’ll save you both,” Kili promised. Behind him, his brother nodded; “We found the Athelas plant, there is enough for both of you. Can you lead us back to your palace?”  
The prince nodded, but he could not walk. Kili lifted him easily and looked to the others. “We have to hurry.”  
But haste was not in their favor, for they were burdened with both Legolas and Gandalf, and Radagast could do little more than stumble and amble along after them, so that Bofur was forced to take him upon his back. They hurried through the dark, Fili leading the way with Legolas and Kili close behind as the stricken prince did his best to guide them along the roads.  
Night in the forest had thickened and still, and the stars were bright and cold in the last waning hours before dawn. The moon was sinking now over the ruins of Dol Guldur, and within his palace King Thranduil lay dying.  
His remaining sons called for their greatest healers, but this was far beyond their skill, and they had even sent a messenger as far off as Rivendell in hopes of reaching Lord Elrond. But their hope was fading with the hours, and their people began to mourn. It seemed very likely they would lose three members of the royal family, instead of only one.  
The sentry at the gate sat up then and gave a great blast of his horn, and Tauriel, the King’s faithful captain rushed to the gates. She was greeted by a miraculous sight.  
“How can it be that a dwarf and a wizard went out into the forest and five dwarves, two wizards and a hobbit returns with the prince?”  
“Never mind that now,” Fili panted. “We’ve found the Athelas!”

*** 

Radagast worked upon the King, allowing Bilbo and the Dwarves to minister to Legolas, who’s malady was less urgent. Fili did as the wizard had told him, crushing the flowers to produce their sticky sap, which he pressed into Legolas’ wounds while Kili held him still. It seemed painful, and the prince did his best to keep his dignity and not cry out as spasms took him. Kili held him close and crooned in his ear in an effort to comfort him.  
Bilbo and Thorin watched all this in silent fascination, not knowing if they were too late. The first rays of light were coming up in the East and could be felt within the forest fortress. A hush had fallen over it as it’s people waited with baited breath to learn the fate of their kingdom.  
“It is done,” Radagast sighed after a time, sitting back in his chair at the King’s bed side. “Only time will tell now if we succeeded. We shall have to wait for them to wake.”  
“How long will that take?” Kili asked.   
The Brown wizard scratched his matted hair and shrugged; “Hours, days perhaps. The magic must be given time, master Kili and it cannot be rushed, no matter how we wish it so.”   
The others dismissed themselves quietly, leaving the injured in the capable hands of their kin. All except Kili, who stayed behind with the wizard. “You are special to him,” Radagast mused, looking at the young dark haired dwarf, who looked weary but would not take his eyes from the sleeping elf in front of him. “It is a rare bond you share. Your peoples have feuded long and terribly. You may be able to help him more than you know.”  
“I’ll do anything for him.”  
Radagast smiled at the devotion he heard in Kili’s voice, and wondered if he were not too young to understand. “Legolas has been touched by morality. This cure will save his life, but he will never be as he was.”  
This shocked Kili and he looked again at his lover, gripping his hand tightly. “Whatever happens, I will help him through it.”  
“He has a choice to make now, and I regret to say that it will be tremendously difficult. Only staying here in the shelter of the forest can his light return to him fully. He will never be like his brothers again; he has known grief, love, and the touch of death. It is an extraordinary gift, and a terrible burden for an immortal.”  
“Is it…my fault?”  
“Yes.” And Kili made a terrible face which made him clarify; “that is to say, that had he not met you, he would have gone on ignorant of these things. I’m sure if you were to ask if he would change it, he would answer no.”  
“So…how can I help?”  
“He must stay with his kin if he is ever to achieve the immortal light that once flowed in him. But if he leaves, if he chooses instead to be with you…then he will become mortal as you are.”   
Kili frowned, not understanding. “Well…what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with a mortal life? If there is happiness, someone to share it with. We could look after each other.” He looked then to the other Elves who lingered on the far side of the room, dutifully watching over their kin. The ones who were not at their father’s bedside looked at Kili and Radagast in silence, and the dwarf did not want to meet their eyes, for they were silent but pleading. They were a dying race, the Wood Elves of Mirkwood, and soon they may vanish from this world all together, either to pass into the West or to diminish into nothing more than guardian spirits of the forest. They had no one but themselves, even estranged from their fellow Elves in Lothlorien, and Rivendell. All they had left was each other, and they had lost so much already. Kili knew that feeling terribly well. He hated Radagast then and bade him leave him alone, which the wizard did with a kind nod of his head. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Although afflicted by the same poison, Thranduil is not touched by the hand of mortality as Legolas is. This is because he was born of one of the High Elves, and is so much older than his son, that such black magic, though it could indeed kill him, could never strip him of his immortal qualities or his magic.
> 
> That's my story and I'm sticking to it.


	13. Thaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes take a short rest in Thranduil's palace, and Kili struggles with his desires and his duties.

*** 

Thorin never believed he would be walking these halls again, much less as a guest. Still, he could not help but appreciate the architecture, and the natural beauty of Thranduil’s halls, now that he had seen more than the bleak and dismal dungeons. The others were taking a much needed rest, but he was restless and wakeful and nothing would sooth him but to stretch his legs and let his mind wander.  
He took pause upon one of the strange balconies that looked down over the halls and over the flowing river, giving him a breathtaking view of Mirkwood by daylight, and from here it did not seem a dark or evil place at all, but a forest nearly forgotten by time and memory, untouched by the world and the peoples beyond it. The trees did not feel so very different from his halls of stone then, untouched by time and the comings and goings of the world. Thorin had always felt like the mountain, unchanged by time, his goals always the same, his ambitions single minded. But even rock weathers, and he was not the same.  
He found himself a companion then in Gandalf the Grey, whom was feeling far more his old self as he came to greet him. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It makes you realize how much perception accounts for things; as different as night and day.”  
“I’m glad you’re well again,” Thorin said simply, taking out his pipe as Gandalf did the same.  
“Thank you. I am glad that we are not all dead as well.” He chuckled a little as he said this, though it was not very funny at all. “A quick thinker, your burglar is, using the stone like that. I wouldn’t have thought of it.”  
Thorin knew what the old man was getting at, and he looked at him with tired but placid features, “If you are expecting me to be angry, I am not. Perhaps I should be, but there is none of it left in me now. I have no ire for Bilbo, no love for that stone, no hatred left within for these Elves which have put us through so much. I feel…old. Tired.”  
“It is not age you feel, my friend,” Gandalf said gently. “It is a void. You carried around hatred in your heart for so long that its absence has left you feeling bare, perhaps a bit numb. But you already have the remedy for what ails you.”  
Thorin nodded and blew a smoke ring out into the air where it wafted over the trees and faded into the morning sunlight. Gandalf let him have his peace for a time, for he had something else to say that would unsettle it. “What of the mountain then? What of Erebor and Dain?”  
“We will go back, and war with them if we must, though I hope it will not come to that.” He was sincere as he spoke, thinking of his friends and mostly of his nephews, and how he had nearly lost them once already.  
“That is my hope too, though hope is never certain.” The wizard nodded. “And what of Bilbo?”  
“What of him?”  
“He is not meant for battles, Thorin.”  
“He is braver than you give him credit for.”  
“It is not his bravery I have ever doubted, or I never would have brought you to him in the first place. Lionhearted he is, but that does not make him a warrior. If you keep him here, Thorin, if these battles between you and the Dwarves of the Ironhills continue, you will lose him.”  
“Have you seen this?”  
“I do not see all ends, only the possibilities. Bilbo will follow you into anything now, for his guilt is great that he let you go before on your own when he knew better. He has tortured himself over these thoughts, and nothing I can say or do can change it. Love and devotion to another person is a greater magic than any of my order could ever hope to fully understand, much less control.”  
Thorin nodded and Gandalf thought he saw the dwarf’s blue eyes cloud for a moment with tears and his heart ached for him. The King then sighed and offered the wizard a pale smile, “You know, I have no always thought kindly of you, Gandalf. But I know now that you have always had our best interest at heart, however strange your means. For that, I must thank you.” They bowed to each other, and then Gandalf embraced him and clapped him upon the back endearingly and left him to his thoughts.  
But the grey wizard leaned heavily upon his staff as he ambled, for it was not indeed Thorin’s best interest he had in his heart then. There was a shadow in his mind, a fear that had been brewing for some time now, and the encounter within the forest with the wraith had given him all the more reason to fear. He had begun to suspect the unthinkable—that the tiny, insignificant magic ring that Bilbo had found within the depths of the Misty Mountains could indeed be something of much greater power.  
He could not yet prove it, and as of yet he had no idea how he would, but if his fears rang true, and the ring was kept with Bilbo and Thorin in the Lonely Mountain…  
He shuddered to think what would come of it then; war would be the very least of their woes, for it would eventually consume both the Hobbit and the Dwarves, and Erebor would be no more, and it’s evil power would spread like a cancer throughout the land. Gandalf sickened at the thought and had to give pause to collect himself.  
Radagast came upon him then and saw the turmoil and sadness in his face. “Is it as you feared?” he asked, and the grey wizard looked at him, almost as amused by perceptiveness as he was troubled by it. “I have no way of being sure. It was lost out of time for so long that there are so few records…it may be that it is simply one of the lost dwarven rings, or another of the great many magic oddities floating around in the world. To have found it of all places in the bottom of a mountain…”  
“But if it is, Gandalf. Just think if it is! What it would mean!”  
“I am terribly aware, my old friend.” He sighed heavily and the air rose and sank out of his frame, deflating him. “I have felt no ill-will from it, no draw of power. I do not think it is what we may fear. But…I will not chance it remaining in the halls of Erebor. The dwarves have already proven that they have an affliction towards such things.”  
“Indeed. Though this one is stronger than others,” Radagast nodded. “I believe this Thorin Oakenshield might break the old curses of his fathers. At the very least, his nephew might.”  
Gandalf nodded in agreement for he had high hopes for the King and his heirs, which was why the proposal in his mind left such a bitter taste within his mouth. “Hobbits, of all creatures, seek neither gold, nor glory, nor power or might. They are simple, good people of the earth. This ring, whatever secrets it has, will be safe with its bearer for the time being. I will send him back to the Shire, where it can do no harm.”  
“And your Hobbit? He will agree to this?”  
And here Gandalf felt his heart and his conscience flinch, “I have seen that it will be so, whether it is his wish or not. In time, I will make it right.”  
“I’m sure you will.” Radagast nodded, though he did not fully understand, nor truly care about Gandalf’s affairs with Hobbits or Dwarves, nor especially the Elves. “As for me, I wash my hands of the lot and will be returning to my hovel. Goodness knows how my little ones have been getting on without me, poor little dears! Spring is not so far off you know, and I am terribly behind…” He went off muttering to himself, and Gandalf nodded, a new thought in his mind. “Yes, indeed. Spring is not so far off after all.”

***  
Bilbo was abed late into the day, and cared not to be bothered. Though he knew he was safe within the Elven King’s halls, and the wickedness of the forest could not follow him here, he wanted to shut his eyes and wish it all away, and his heart ached for Bag End once more. Would he ever see his home again? His garden, his cozy arm chair by the fire, his books and maps and all the trappings? Would he never again sit in his garden at sunset and watch the stars come out one by one over the green hills and the rivers and watch fireflies dance around the heavy branches of the party tree?  
He would have liked to have taken Thorin there, when the weather was warm and calm, and sat with him in the garden or beneath the trees that ran along the river, and walked with him in the woods, singing songs and telling him of his childhood there in the Shire. Even in the winter, when the first thaw of spring came, the sound of cracking ice on the river would wake wee hobbit babes from their slumbers and stir up birds that took to the air and had all of Hobbiton in tizzy of drowsy and confused activity.  
Bilbo was startled then when he felt a heavy weight shift upon his bed, and a body cover his and lips at his neck. He sighed and began to turn around, but Thorin bade him be still as he undressed himself down to his tunic and leggings and lay beneath the blankets with the Hobbit. Bilbo had to stop himself from practically purring like a contented house cat at the warmth that spread over him. Thorin didn’t realize how powerful his own body heat could be compared to little Bilbo, and being wrapped in his arms beneath the sheets with their bodies pressed close together was like being wrapped in his old quilts while lying next to the fire. Bilbo resolved that he never need to move again.  
“So this is where you’ve been hiding?” Thorin asked. “It’s very comfortable, though not exactly clever.”  
“Hobbits will always choose comfort over cleverness.” Bilbo yawned, snuggling further against the dwarf and letting his long hair and beard tickle against the nape of his neck. He pulled Thorin’s hand cover his chest and held it there over his heart. “Let’s take a nap…I think that would be just brilliant. Don’t you, your Majesty?”  
Thorin nuzzled him and then Bilbo felt the hot tickle of his tongue against his ear. “Oh…” He was allowed to roll over only enough so that Thorin could kiss him properly, and Bilbo found himself quickly possessed by those familiar strong hands. Bilbo found himself excitedly breathless, but also hesitant. They had not been together in this manner since before Thorin had taken the throne; before the battle and the argument and the banishment… He was afraid to be this unguarded with him again, though he wanted it so much.  
Thorin had rolled on top of him and was kissing his way down his chest as he undid his nightshirt, and Bilbo pulled his tunic up over his back, discarding it over his head as they dove under the covers again. He ran his hands down Thorin’s chest and found the wounds that he had patched and mended there, and the King gave a little twinge of pain as he did so. Bilbo stopped, drawing back his touch and Thorin hesitated as well, looking down at his marred flesh. “Should we? I wouldn’t want to risk you reopening something while we were…um…”  
“Never mind that. Be with me, that’s all I ask.”  
“Ask? What would a King ask of a simple Hobbit, when you can demand anything?”  
“I would never demand anything of you, Bilbo Baggins. I may be King Under the Mountain, but to you I am a humble servant. You are the heart of me, I believe.”  
Bilbo forgot all hesitation then, sat up and took Thorin’s face between his palms and kissed him hard and breathlessly until the Dwarf pulled him into his lap, rocking up against him with growing friction until they were both gasping and flushed. His nightshirt hanging off him, Bilbo eased himself down, taking Thorin in little by little until it was not enough to satisfy either of them and the King thrust up into him, making them both cry out. Bilbo shuddered and gripped his lover’s broad shoulders harshly, needing some leverage as they rocked up and down and back and forth in turn. Bilbo was surprised at how tender Thorin was with him this time, even shy for he kept his eyes closed and pressed his face against Bilbo’s chest as if not wanting to meet his gaze, but eventually Bilbo brought his hand under his chin and made the King look up at him. “Don’t hide from me, please. I want to see you, all of you. Flaws don’t matter.”  
Thorin wrapped his arms around him and moved him bodily and Bilbo happily gave himself over to whatever he wished, as long as Thorin was himself and his alone to love and possess. It did not take much longer for either of them to come to completion, Thorin finishing first and then taking care to see that Bilbo was just as satisfied. And in the aftermath they laid sleepily again beneath their sweat soiled sheets and dozed in the late morning sun.  
There was a knock on the door then and Bofur, having given the knock as a courtesy rather than waiting for permission to enter, waltzed into the room, pleasant as you please and whistling, fresh from the hot springs where had been bathing (much the Elves’ fascination and dismay). “Good morning, Bilbo, my lad! Have you rested well--?”  
He was greeted by the rather un-amused expression of Thorin Oakenshield, who was glaring up at him from Bilbo’s bed, quite naked and clearly fresh from his own brand of refreshment. Beneath him the Hobbit was half comatose and kept pawing at Thorin’s chest hair, trying to pull him back down, muttering something about being cold.  
“Well! Good to see all things reconciled at last!”  
“Get OUT, Bofur.”  
“Right, of course, of course! Wouldn’t want to disturb the King and his consort.” He snorted at this as he leaned over and rooted through Bilbo’s things to produce a small bag of pipe weed, which he quickly absconded with, completely ignoring the glare that was boring through him like a pick-axe through stone. “I’ll just let them know you aren’t to be disturbed, eh?”  
“BOFUR!”

***

Kili had let his heavy head fall upon his arms, eyes closed, for just a moment, he thought, to rest them. But soon he was in a dream of far off fields and bright sunshine, the smell of fresh air and clean water and a vast rolling landscape before him. He walked through the tall grass, hearing music and laughter somewhere far in the distance, and when he turned his head he could see little houses there, with grey tendrils of smoke rising from their chimneys. Children laughed and played in the grass and people came and went down the little stone roads, lost in their own business. This brought contentment to him for a moment, but the longer he stared he began to think that something was missing. A hand brushed his and he turned to look at who was standing there. But at that moment he felt another hand brushing his hair and he woke, groggy and confused. His eyes came to rest upon the smiling face that was close to him. “Tell me what you dreamt. It seemed like a very good dream.”  
Kili smirked and bent over him to kiss him hard, climbing on top of him in his excitement and the elf did not protest, relishing the weight of the other man on top of him. “What could dreams possibly compare to you?” Kili answered, and the Elf chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “You are a shameless flirt.”  
But Kili ignored him and just kissed him again. Eventually he willed himself to step back and allow the other some breath and a chance to stretch. “How do you feel?”  
“Heavy,” Legolas answered strangely as he lifted himself from the bed “as though drawn to the ground like water into roots.” All this seemed only to perplex the Elf, while it left his lover feeling guilty and concerned. “Where is my father? Is he well?”  
“I have not seen him, but I am told that he seems likely to recover.” Kili offered, and Legolas breathed a sigh of relief with a hand to his heart. “I must go and see to him,” he tried to stand, but his weak legs would not hold him yet, and Kili caught him and held him for a moment. “Don’t be so hasty! You’ve had a tough time of it yourself, if I recall. Rest here a moment, and then we will go together.”  
Legolas wished to sit by the window and take in some fresh air and light, which he felt deprived of. Reality seemed vague and fuzzy to him now, as though he were in a waking dream, sure of the nightmares in the dark but not sure of what he was looking at right in that moment. But by and by it began to fade and he felt steadier, more grounded in the world.  
They sat together at the window, and the elf breathed deep the air and let his skin drink in the light. Kili was pleased to see that he did look more himself, that he moved and stood and even breathed like an immortal thing. But he was still not the same. His hands, always cool to the touch before, were now warm and blistered at the fingers like Kili’s own. Archer’s hands, worker’s hands, mortal hands. Legolas looked back out over the forest, and his face was a like that of a lost child’s; “I cannot hear the voices of the trees, nor the whispers of river. The forest looks dull and twisted, sick and ugly. The light has gone from it.”  
Kili tried to smile and took Legolas’ hand in his, “Don’t trouble yourself with this old forest! There is so much more of the world to see! We can leave now, and return to Lake Town, or we could go to the Blue Mountains or Dunland, or anywhere! Surely there are grander and fairer forests than here!”  
But Legolas only looked at him sadly, “Kili, you do not understand. This is my home. I was born here, as my brothers before me, and my father before them. If I cannot hear the trees here, what hope have I hearing them elsewhere?”  
“I…didn’t know it was so important to you.” He shifted nervously and tried to cheer his lover, “give it a little time. Radagast said that everything may not come back all at once. Maybe you will hear them again tomorrow, or the next day. Don’t despair.”  
Legolas did smile at him then and kissed him. “You are right, I must have patience. Forgive me, love, I did not mean to be ungrateful. You have passed through such danger for me and all I can think of are trees.”  
“Don’t think of it!” Kili said boldly, pulling him up to stand again. “Come, let’s go and walk in the garden or take a ride along the path. All this terrible gloom has left me restless!”  
They walked together through the cloisters into the sheltered gardens of the King’s court. Here strange, woodland flowers bloomed in such beauty that it put the meadows to shame, and sunlight poured from bare branches far above in the canopy that bent and curved their naked arms as if to resemble the etched windows of cathedrals in faraway realms that Kili had never seen. They walked close, hand in hand and silent, and the dwarf did his best to maintain an air of confidence and peace, but Radagast’s words were eating away at him inside.  
“It is still peaceful here, I am glad.” Legolas sighed, easing himself down upon a stone bench to admire the landscape. “Don’t you think so?”  
“Of course,” Kili said, but in truth he was barely listening. “Legolas…there is something I must ask you.” And strove to gather up his nerve as the flaxen haired man beside him sat and watched, perfectly still. Even now, with his light dimmed as it was, there was nothing about the Elf that was not immortal. He had been born that way, and it was the only he would ever remain pure and whole. Kili knew then he had no right to ask, but he spoke anyway; “What if you never heard the trees again?”  
“What a terrible thing to say.” Legolas frowned. “A terrible thought indeed.” And he lifted his gaze to the light and the branches far above as if straining desperately to hear. Kili knew then what must be done, but it hurt him so, and in his pain he found only anger. “What good is talking to trees, if you ask me? I have never spoken to a mountain, or a field or anything else upon which I had trodden on or through and I am no worse for it. Better, perhaps! Trees might have beautiful voices and stories to tell, but they cannot love you. They cannot make you laugh, they cannot comfort you at night in the dark. But I can! Am I not better than some twisted old bit of bark?”  
His words shocked and stung the elf, for he did not understand their source, and as he reached to touch Kili and calm him, the dwarf drew away bitterly and would not look at him.  
“You are so very angry, but anger only masks sorrow. Please tell me what has upset you so.”  
But it was at this unfortunate moment that Fili entered the garden as well, groggy and unassuming, having just awakened from a long rest himself. He stumbled upon the two lovers, without realizing the quarrel at hand and smiled, “Oh here you are! I’ve been wandering aimless forever it feels like, so easy to get lost here! The only person I met on the way was Bofur and he was having a laugh about upsetting Uncle and Bilbo and I thought it best I didn’t learn more.”  
Legolas rose then and went to him, taking his hands. “Fili, I give you my most profound gratitude for coming to our aid in our time of need. When my father is well again, he will thank you personally. You will never know how grateful we are for your valor.”  
Fili blushed faintly, for he had never thought of himself as valiant, and the prince was so fair of face and kind and sincere that he felt a bit flustered. His brother rose then, glaring at the two of them. “Perhaps I should leave you two alone so you may show your gratitude properly.” Kili snarled,  
Both were taken aback, but it was Fili who spoke; “What? What are you on about? He was just being—“  
“I know what he was being, I am speaking to you!” He shoved Fili then and the older dwarf balked, for there was so rarely a quarrel between them that he almost did not recognize one when it came.  
“And what have I done? I think you must have hit your head last night and scattered your brains!” Fili grumbled back.  
“Kili, please, this must stop. Your brother has done nothing wrong!”  
“Right, of course, what does Kili matter in the grand scheme of it all then, eh? I’m no King, no Prince, nothing but a dirty dwarf,” he growled at them, and hot red spots were appearing on his cheeks in his ire and his eyes were welling with what they saw were bitter tears. “What would an immortal want with a dirty dwarf archer, when he could have the future King Under the Mountain and all the treasures of Erebor?”  
“That’s enough!” Fili shouted, and his voice startled his little brother, and the three of them grew painfully silent for a moment. Fili lowered his head, trying to catch his breath, for that moment he was more wounded than angry. “Forgive me, brother, if I have wounded your pride with my good intentions. I will know better next time, and you will have all the glory. I want none of it.” Fili turned and stormed away and in his wake Kili was left shocked and staring, slowly realizing the hateful words he had spoken in anger.  
He covered his hands with his face and dropped to his knees, caught between cursing and wailing and made no sound at all but a terrible little moan of dismay. Eventually he felt Legolas’ hands upon him, biding him to look at him. “I see what’s in your heart, Kili. What Radagast told you, it weighs heavily on your heart.”  
“Did the trees tell you that?” Kili sniffled, his eyes red-rimmed and wet as he peeked over the shelter of his hands. The elf kissed his forehead and smoothed back his dark hair from his face. “Whether I hear the song of the trees again or not, Kili, I have already made my choice. I love whom I love.”  
Kili wrapped his arms around the taller man and held him there for a long time in silence.  
But his words did not comfort Kili. Legolas leaned in and kissed him again gently, but Kili drew away. “How can you be calm? It is because of me this has befallen you, and it was not even I who saved you, truly. That honor is my brother’s, not mine.”  
Legolas looked at him with gentle pity, “Kili, your brother is strong and brave, and a worthy heir of Durin. It is true that his strength helped deliver the Athelas. But his strengths are not yours. You have boundless courage, you hastened all to save not only me but your brother as well. Your deeds are worthy of song, Kili. You do not linger in the shadow of your brother. You two are like the sun and moon. You may share light, but you are your own.” He put his palms at the sides of Kili’s jaw and rubbed his ears with his thumbs. The dwarf put his palms over the elf’s and gently drew away. “I must go and talk with Fili.”  
“Of course.”

***


	14. The Coming of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili seeks solace in his companions, and a feast is held in honor of their noble deeds. The Kings of Erebor and Mirkwood put aside their old quarrels as they look to the gathering dark that Gandalf and Radagast has warned them of. Urgent word comes from Lake Town, and Thranduil makes a demand that Thorin does not know if he can abide by.

***

Fili met few eyes as he passed and he was glad for it, for they would get nothing from him but his scorn at the moment. He wandered hastily, growing more frustrated by the moment for not knowing his way and craving some place where he could escape and be alone and gather his thoughts. Kili’s words had unraveled something in him, something he had long kept secret, even from himself, and he hated him in that moment for doing so. But Kili hadn’t meant it, and he had known this too, but jealousy was an ugly thing.  
Feeling his control slipping, he darted into the first door he came upon and found himself in the midst of Bofur and Dwalin who were all having a smoke in the quiet and enjoying the last few crumbs of their meal, which must have been rather heavy from their sleepy expressions.   
“Master Fili!” Bofur said pleasantly, turning towards him to welcome him inside, beckoning him to sit down. “Come and have a drink. This wine is nothing compared to some of the ales of the Blue Mountains, but it’s sweet and heady enough if you give it time!”  
“I don’t want your damn wine!” Fili blurted out, allowing his fist to swing out and strike the wall beside him, which made the earthen wall give a little shiver as it released some debris. The two dwarves blinked at their companion and Dwalin took a deep breath before exhaling a large cloud of smoke, his dark eyes gazing sternly but easily at Fili. “Easy now, lad, you’re among friends, remember?”  
Fili nodded and sunk upon a stool and hung his head, trying to breathe. “Yes. I’m sorry, Dwalin. You too, Bofur. I did not mean anything.”  
“What’s upset you, boy?”   
Fili would not say, not at first. He hadn’t the words to express it, but little by little he convinced himself that if anyone might understand and hold him without judgment or disappointment it would be these two. “I had a row with Kili.”  
“Did you? Seems that lad just doesn’t know when to settle down these days. It’s the love sickness of course, does mad things to people, especially falling in love with an elf.” Bofur nodded knowingly. “But it couldn’t have been all that bad. You and Kili are thick as thieves and worse. What could he have said that put you in such a state?”  
“Something stupid, I’m sure.” Dwalin grumbled, “He’s got courage, but brains were never his strong suit.”  
“Nothing but the truth,” Fili admitted begrudgingly. He stared at his hands and found his fingers trembling. “I…do not wish to be King.”  
And the two older dwarves nodded slowly in the silence. Bofur put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a little shake, “Don’t worry about that now. Your uncle is well, and Dain won’t be underfoot for too much longer once we return. You’ve plenty of time to learn.”  
“I mean that I never wanted it,” Fili corrected quickly. “What good has come of the throne of my forebears? I saw with my own eyes what happened to Thorin and my heart is still sick with it. I have seen now too what became of Thrain…is this evil fate to be mine as well?”  
Bofur looked to Dwalin for some wisdom, for his own kin were not of Erebor and knew little of royal matters, cursed or no. But Dwalin had served Thrain before Thorin, like his brother Balin, and had seen the burdens of the royal family. The taller dwarf sat back in his chair and continued to smoke in silence for a long while, but his eyes staid steadfastly upon Fili’s face. “It is not for us to decide to whom or what we are born, master Fili. It was no more my choice to be the son of Fundin than it was yours to be born of the line of Durin. These things are chosen for us. It may seem to you like shackles of fate, or a noose around your neck, for you are helpless to change it. But you are wrong. Fate puts us upon the road, but we still choose our path. You are not bound by the mistakes of your grandfathers, or even your uncle. You will be King, one day. But only you can decide what sort of ruler you shall be.”  
Bofur nodded appreciatively then and smiled beneath his long bowed mustache, “Ah. Now there’s wisdom for you, laddie. I don’t think your brother Balin could have said it better, Dwalin, my friend.”  
The bald dwarf grunted and returned to his pipe, closing his eyes and ignoring the other two as they sat together in quiet company for a moment or two more. There came a sharp knock upon the door which made the younger two turn, and Kili’s dark head of hair popped itself through the opening with insistence, though his expression was awkward and cautious. “Brother?”  
Fili stood and opened the door the rest of the way for him silently and he stepped in, eyes nervously avoiding his face. “Oh, I didn’t know you two would be here.”  
“Where else would we be?” Bofur asked, “Smack dab in the middle of trouble as usual.”  
“I, um…might I speak to Fili alone for a moment?”  
“Well, I’m rather comfortable right where I am.” Bofur replied, settling himself back down in his nice comfortable chair and leaning back as if waiting for the show to begin. Kili gave him a look of exasperation, but the former toymaker was unmoved, or at least seemed amused by his young friend’s anxiousness. “Go on, we’re all listening.”  
“Dwalin, can’t you--?”  
Dwalin made a noise like growling dog disturbed from its sleep by a careless foot, and he immediately forgot what he was going to ask and turned to Fili. “You know I didn’t mean it; back there. I know you would never do anything like that; there’s not a dishonorable bone in your whole body.”  
“Then why did you say it?”  
“I don’t know! I was…I’m just…” Kili sputtered for the words and he seemed like he was drowning in the flood of worries that were in his mind. “I feel as if I am standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall, and above me an avalanche is falling. I have to choose, between jumping or waiting for one of the rocks to crush me. I suddenly have so much to lose, so much more than I thought. And I’m afraid, and I’m selfish, and I just want things to be as they were before. Before this quest and the mountain, before the Goblins and the Orcs. before all this wickedness found us. We were happy then, weren’t we brother? Poor, but happy.”  
Fili’s heart softened and he forgot his own worries for the moment and put his arms around Kili. “Don’t confuse complacency for happiness, Kili. Our lives have always been hard, but Thorin looked after us. It’s because of Thorin we have survived as long as we have. If we had dishonored him by letting him go alone on this quest, would we be safe? Perhaps, but not happy. Would you be happy if you had never met Legolas?”  
Kili whimpered and shook his head against Fili’s broad shoulder. “But now I must let him go.”  
“But why?”  
Before Kili could answer, there came a knock upon the door and the red haired Captain of the royal guard intruded upon their gathering. “Forgive me, master dwarves, but the King and his sons request an audience.”  
“Well, that seems like a good omen!” Bofur said briskly, standing and adjusting his coat as he smiled sweetly at Tauriel, whom did not seem to understand the Dwarf’s charming demeanor, for Bofur had a way of enchanting whomever he met with nothing more than a wink and a smile. “And how is his majesty?”  
She blinked slightly in confusion and then gestured for them to make haste. Bofur offered her his arm and she again declined it awkwardly as they stepped out into corridor, with Dwalin muttering behind them. Fili and Kili followed lastly, and two exchanged silent glances, the elder brother looking for answers within the other.   
As they emptied into the great sweeping throne room of the King, they found themselves observed by the numerous heirs of the Mirkwood Kingdom and its subjects. They did not regard them as they once did, with suspicion and trepidation. Their clear mysterious eyes beheld them with reverence and gratitude, but some were still tinged with a strange sadness. Kili could not meet their gazes, though he felt them washing over him as they walked.   
They were joined shortly by the rest of their company; Thorin and Bilbo stood close together nearest the King’s throne, and Gandalf beside them. They gathered close out of habit, for the Dwarves were still wary of their company; all except for Kili, who was searching the crowd for the face of Legolas.  
He needn’t look too long, for the next moment there came the melodic call of the King’s horns, announcing his arrival. Thranduil was as graceful and regal as before, but his gait was slow and careful, and Legolas was at his arm, helping him along.   
The King’s eyes met theirs and his gaze was nearly unrecognizable from before. The coldness, the distrust have vanished, replaced with something new, something raw and timid, almost frightened. But there was a smile at his lips as he came before them and spoke;  
“Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain,” He bowed low, as did Legolas, and Thorin bowed in kind, a muted stunned expression on his handsome features. “Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, my illusive thief and dear friend,” said the Elven King to Bilbo, who blushed nervously and gave a little bow in kind. “This is our third meeting, and I am pleased to say that it might not be our last. Our words, spoken in these halls, have not always been kind. I would see an end to that. Ever will my halls, my kinsmen and my guard be at your service, should you ever have need for it, for I owe you so much more than my life.” He looked to Legolas then, and Fili and Kili recognized within that gaze the same kind of love and terror that was often reflected back at them through Thorin’s eyes, and knew Thranduil was no different than their uncle, nor perhaps their own father, when it came to the affairs of his loved ones.   
He turned then to the younger dwarves and his eyes grew warmer. “Fili and Kili, heirs of Thorin, King Under the Mountain,” Thranduil addressed them. “Once I treated you unfairly as enemies and spies. My fears clouded my mind and caused error in my judgment. Yet, despite all my wrongs against you and your people, you have risked all to save what I cherish most dearly.” And the Elven King bowed to them, and the two dwarves were left stunned and speechless as his court did the same. “Forever, I will remember this great deed, and I and my people will ever be at your service.”  
“And we at yours,” Fili nodded with a bow, for it seemed the right thing to say. Kili nodded, not having any words. He could not take his eyes from Legolas, whom was beaming at him.   
“Tonight we shall feast, and celebrate our renewed vows of friendship, and you shall attend as our most honored guests.” Thranduil declared, much to the echoed rejoicing of his subjects. But the King stepped a bit closer to Gandalf then and spoke softly; “I have seen things, Mirthandir. Might we speak alone?” Gandalf nodded and they returned to themselves, smiling as if nothing were amiss among them. 

*** 

Torches burned bright in the cloistered halls of the Mirkwood Fortress, and sweet music filled the air, lifting the weary gloom from the forest around them. The dwarves were reminded of their first desperate meetings in the dark with the elves, when they had stumbled blindly among their relvery and watched them vanish like fairy lights in the dark.  
Though they were now among friends, they were no less bewildered by their merrymaking, nor envious of their joy and revelry. Thorin thought of his friends left in Lake Town, and of Dain and his men within the mountain and the battle must soon come. He had never been one to run from a battle, for life had taught him many hard lessons on the battle field. But for the first time since losing his grandfather and brother did he truly hesitate at the thought. He looked out across the table at Fili and Kili as they mingled, and to Bofur and Dwalin. How could he ask any more of them when they had already been through so much? He had cheated death so many times now; surely it would come to collect his due if he were tested any further.  
His eyes turned then on Bilbo, who was attempting to learn an Elvish ballad as he sat along side some minstrals, smiling and laughing for the first time in ages it seemed. Gandalf’s words wandered back through his troubled mind and he took another drink of wine.   
Where would they go now? What was the next course of action? Erebor could not be left to Dain, not after all they had been through to reach it. It would be a slap in the face of his poor dead father and grandfather to yield now. But they could not enter the mountain as easily as before; Dain will have guessed their plans. They would have draw him out, and possibly with the help of Bard and his forces and the Elven King’s archers they could withstand another battle. But Thorin did not wish to see blood shed; these dwarves had no evil in them, they were merely following the orders of a mad man, as he himself once had been.  
He felt weak then and slumped a little in his seat, his heart sick with the memory of it. He would never fully recover from that shame, and he knew it. He was a disgraced King, perhaps unfit to rule as Dain had said. All he desired now was peace; and that was at Bilbo’s side. He smiled faintly behind his hand as he gazed warmly at the hobbit, but his attentions were drawn away by the movement of Gandalf and the King slinking off to speak alone. Thorin rose from his seat and followed them.  
The grey and silver figures slipped into an alcove near a fountain where they might speak untroubled, and Thranduil gave a little start when he saw Thorin following them. “King Thorin, forgive me, but I wish to speak with the wizard privately for a moment.”  
“We will have no more secrets between our peoples, Thranduil,” Thorin said simply, locking eyes with him. “Not if this alliance is to have any merit. Besides, whatever you tell the wizard, he will eventually reveal to me, or one of my company. Isn’t that right Gandalf?”  
The wizard sighed and his shoulders shook with a hapless little chuckle; “Indeed, this lot has a way of finding out more than they are meant to when they set their minds to it.”  
The Elf gave pause for only a moment, but his stubbornness melted away like snow upon warm earth and he nodded. Indeed, this was a very different man than Thorin had met before, and he was eager to hear what he had to say. “I have seen things, in the blackness. Nightmares, I would say only they were all too real, too certain and too sure of themselves to be but tormenting ghosts of a plagued mind. The old shadow of Mordor stirs here, within my forest. It has been for sometime, and I have closed my mind against it, for I fear it more than you can imagine.”  
“I understand, my Lord. But please, what is it you saw while you were afflicted by the venom?”  
“He’s alive, Gandalf. Some part of him stirs yet within the world. Not whole, not with even a semblance yet of his old strength…and yet he is pulling all the powers of darkness to him. Gathering himself for what is to come.”  
“Who is it you speak of?” Thorin asked, and Thranduil hesitated to speak his name, so Gandalf answered; “It was before your time, Thorin. I myself was young then, in a time nearly out of memory, when Sauron and his armies rose against the free peoples of Middle Earth.”  
A hush fell over them and Thorin thought he saw a tremble in Thranduil’s elegant fingers as he stood, glaring upward at his earthen and root carved halls, for it felt to him as if the trees were leaning in, listening, spying. Gandalf put a hand upon the King’s shoulder to steady him and he became calm again. “You have been much afflicted by these thoughts.”  
“Yes. My son cannot tell me plainly all that he saw in the darkness himself, but I have gathered that it is the same nightmarish vision. Why does it gather here, Mirthandir? What is it he’s looking for?”  
The wizard gave pause and spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words; “I do not yet know. But I have felt this evil as well. Your nightmares, my King, are far too real. But the shadow that was gathering here has been dispelled for the time being. Where it will run to now…I can only venture to guess.”  
“Let it go there then and trouble me no further,” Thranduil muttered.   
“You speak of the black lands of Mordor?” Thorin spoke then. “That is far to the West of these lands. Who is to say it will not infect another land before it reaches there?”  
“Only time will tell.” The dwarf paused and thought of Bilbo and the swirling darkness in the forest and his stomach pinched and felt uneasy. Gandalf did not know what to say to them then, for he felt the wariness of their hearts and uneasiness of their minds within his own. “It is possible that some shade of the Dark Lord is attempting to draw power through his old vices. It is a fact that the ring, born by your grandfather Thror, was one of the seven given to the race of Dwarves by him. It and not the gold, was the instrument of your family’s madness. You bore that ring yourself, Thorin, when you came to the Lonely Mountain. There it grew strong and overcame you. But when you lay upon your sick bed, Dain stole that ring from you. Bilbo Baggins saw it with his own eyes.”  
“Could this ring be drawing him in?”  
“It could be what is gathering the other darkness. If Sauron himself were present here, I feel things would be much worse.” Gandalf said resolutely, shaking his old grey head as he leaned upon his staff.  
“Then we must take the ring from Dain and be done with it. Destroy it somehow.”  
“Easily said, but not so easily done. He will not give it up now without a fight, and I rather fear he will not remember that beneath it’s spell he is an honorable leader and you are his friend. It may come to the worst, Thorin. Can you do this?”  
“If he cannot, than I shall.” Thranduil said earnestly, but Thorin held out his hand.  
“If Dain is to be slain, it will be by the hand of the King. Forgive me, your grace, but these matters are of family and must be handled the same.”  
“I do understand, Thorin, more than you know. My people are at the ready; we will go with you into battle again if it will rid of this gathering dark.”  
“You have my gratitude.”  
“I will have one thing more from you,” the Elven King said then. Thorin prepared himself for some ridiculous wager, some bid for the treasure that still dwelled within the mountain, though the King had already received his share for his hand in the previous battle.   
“And what is that?”  
“Your word that your nephew will not see my son again.”  
At this both Thorin and Gandalf blinked in surprise. “What has their affair to do with this battle? They are young, they are in love. However you and I feel about it, it has long been out of our hands.”  
But Thranduil shook his head insistently and their was desperateness shining in his clear eyes; “You do not understand. He is not as he was, my child. The venom afflicted him in a way that I cannot mend alone. It will take time, a long count of years for your race, to restore him. If this affair with Kili continues, he will be lost to your mortal world and lost to me forever.”  
“Who has told you this?”  
“The wizard, Radagast.” Gandalf closed his eyes regretfully, for he had seen this coming and wished the Brown Wizard had held his tongue. These affairs were not his concern, not his to be meddling in. But Radagast cared little for the higher races of Middle Earth, and so had spoken without thought of consequence. Or perhaps, he had seen a greater consequence than Gandalf himself did.   
“I’m sure, good king, that you will not lose him forever. He loves you, he has shown his loyalty many times.”  
“He will die. He will wither, grow old and die as all mortal things do. And I will not see it, Thorin Oakenshield, not this day or any other. He is an elf, the last of my sons! My children…they are leaving this world. They go to join their mother on the far shores of Valnor and the Grey Havens where none of this darkness can reach. Those who would stay, will become as I am. Alone, bitter, suspicious of this world of men and wizards. But he is the youngest! He has hope to see Mirkwood become the Greenwood as it once was! My faith, my hope, all lies with him. Do not take that away from me, Thorin.”  
“You ask what I cannot do. I cannot tell them that they cannot love one another.”  
“Then make him understand! Make your nephew see! If he loves my child as he claims, as he promises, than he will not want to see his life end this way! Flowers of the field are beautiful, but all must die with the coming winter. But a tree may endure. Please…”  
The door to the throne room swung wide then and a messenger entered with great urgency, turning all their attentions to him. He dropped and bowed low before his King before speaking; “Forgive my intrusion, my Lord, urgent news had come from the men of Lake Town.”  
“And what care I of their news?”  
. “The city, my King…it has been burned to the ground.”

***


	15. Nori Plots a Ruse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bleak survivors of Dain's raid of Lake Town count their losses, waiting for their lost King Under the Mountain to return, and resourcefulness shows itself once more in the Dwarves of Erebor.

*** 

 

“Dori?! Dori?!”  
Ori, with no small amount of effort, had pulled himself from the burning wreckage of the house he had previously occupied, which had been laid to cinders and charred rubble. His hands were burned and bleeding, and everything he touched with them nearly tore a scream from his raw and choked throat. He had become separated from the others in the siege and had sought higher ground so that he could pick off some of the advancing attackers with his sling shot. He had not expected them to set the hovel on fire.  
“Dori! Nori! Someone, please!” He stumbled over crumbled walls and fallen beams, crashing to the ash laden and frosted ground and cried out again, unable to lift himself. His lungs were choked with smoke and his eyes watered incessantly. He grit his teeth and tried to hold back a cough and a sob, for he was afraid and helpless and did not wish to be discovered weeping upon the ground; if he were discovered at all.  
Someone was calling his name then and through the watery haze of his eyes he thought he saw someone making their way towards him. He reached out blindly and felt someone lift him up from beneath his arms and pull him into their lap. He could not see them properly, but after a moment he recognized the voice. It was Nori who spoke to him, “Little brother, I’m here!”  
Ori shed tears of relief and they cleared some of the soot from his cheeks. Nori removed his coat and wrapped the injured dwarf in it to keep out the chills that racked his slight figure and patted his hair and rubbed his back, “Where the hell did you get off to?! I thought you were right behind me, you little git! Your poor hands…”  
“It hurts so much!” Ori coughed, pushing his face into the older dwarf’s chest. He smelled blood on him. “Are you hurt too?”  
“It’s nothing,” Nori muttered, gathering him up and carrying him on his back across the ruined village streets. The air was still heavy with smoke and in the momentary calm they heard the moans and cries of the wounded and dying and the ever present crackle and pop of the smoldering ruins around them. “Bastards…they should have left this place to the dragon if they would see it burn,” Nori muttered, more to himself than anyone else as he slunk along the roads, careful to stay out of plain sight.  
“Where’s Dori? Is he alright?”  
“Of course, don’t be thick! Although, he’ll have my beard and my head if I don’t get you back safely. Try to rest your voice and your eyes. No telling how long before they start it up again.”  
Ori nodded groggily and rested his chin on Nori’s shoulder and tried to get a proper lung full of air. “Where are Thorin and the others?”  
“Mahal, I wish I knew…”

He made a hasty retreat towards the lower bridge which lead towards the mainland and the edge of the wild beyond, where the refugees had taken shelter. Why Dain and his men had not cut off this route of escape seemed strange, except that Nori was beginning to believe that he would rather see the men of the village driven into the wilderness than kill them all outright. Perhaps that was generous; perhaps it was cruel, knowing what was lurking within the woods beyond the safe borders.  
He came upon the camp fires less than a few dozen yards beyond the tree line, and gave the call of a swallow to signal that he was not one of the enemy. The men let him and Ori pass, giving them mixed looks of pity and disdain. They were not blind, they knew the source of their misfortune, and Nori could not bring himself to hold it against them.  
“Nori! Ori!”  
Dori came trotting up to them, his belly jiggling and his silver-bearded face frightened and dismayed. “You found him! You found him, thank heaven! Bring him here, let me have a look at him!”   
Nori carried Ori to the fire and laid him down on the bedroll near it while Dori had a look at his hands. He was practically weeping as he muttered and hovered over their youngest brother, and Nori watched in silent guilt. Dori had always been the care taker of the three, filling the roll of the parents they had lost long ago. Nori had taken advantage and even mocked that sense of responsibility in him in the past; now he was more grateful for it than ever. He looked out now over the encampment with sorrowful but distant eyes; there were so few of them now. Perhaps only a hundred men, women and children had survived the siege. Others had been captured by Dain’s army and held for a ransom that could not be given; the surrender of Thorin, his heirs and the Arkenstone.  
“Where are the others?” he asked then, almost absently. Ori looked up at him, having quieted Ori for the time and put his hand upon his shoulder for a moment, hanging his head and then, much to Nori’s surprise, embraced him tightly. “We lost Oin in the siege, and Bifur has taken many wounds.”  
Nori blinked in a daze at hearing these words. They had come so far, through such dangers, and yet all that time he had never thought, not until the very end, that they might actually loose anyone. As his brother clutched him, he looked across the encampment and found Gloin kneeling beside his brother’s covered body, his heavy red beard tattered looking from how he had torn it in his grief. Oin had been of great age, but he might have lived for a few more years, good years that might have been spent in the comfort of Erebor. But it was not to be.  
Bombur was looking after his cousin, and Nori was startled to see that the bulging dwarf’s own beard had been singed and much of its length burned away by the fires, and his face was smeared with dark soot. Bifur was saying something to the younger dwarf, but Nori could not decipher the words from this distance.  
They seemed so small, so scattered and lonely, the few of them among the surviving men of Lake Town. It reminded Nori terribly of their many years spent in the Blue Mountains and Dunland and a spark of frustrated hatred rose in his chest and threatened to overwhelm him. “Where are they? Where is Thorin and the wizard? Where the hell are they when we need them?!”  
“Shush, Nori, don’t speak that way. They will return.”  
“What if they don’t?” his brother growled. “What if they are worse off than we? What if they are dead? Dain will not be satisfied now, no, he’s raving mad. He’ll have all our heads on a pike! Where is Balin? I want to speak with him.”  
“He is with Bard, planning our next move. But Nori—“  
The younger brother lifted himself and made to storm off through the camp, but Dori stood and shouted after him, “NORI!”  
He turned and stared at his elder brother who came marching angrily up to him before grabbing him tightly again. “I am glad you are safe.”  
“I am glad you are safe too, brother.”  
“Don’t be foolish. Don’t abandon us. Ori needs you, you know. You’re his hero.” Nori only nodded and turned again, needing to put a bit of distance between himself and his older brother. He loved him dearly, but he had been a solitary dwarf for so much of his life and he played everything close to the vest, especially his emotions. It would not do for Dori to see him on the verge of hopelessness, an emotion he usually covered with anger. And he was angry; so angry at being abandoned here, driven once more from the home they had so long sought, the home they deserved. He felt abandoned and betrayed. Someone was going to have answer for it. “I’ll only be a moment. Tell Ori I’ll be right there.”  
It was not difficult to find Balin and Bard, who were huddled together inside a tent, pouring over old maps and speaking of an escape strategy. “So that’s it then?” Nori began without preamble as he entered the tent. “We’re just going to give up and run?”  
Balin blinked at him a long moment and sighed heavily. “ There are too few of us now, too many lives have been lost. The Men of Lake Town are all but destroyed and our company…we cannot hope to take back Erebor as we are now. It is folly.”  
“We took it back from a dragon but we can’t withstand a raid by our own damn people!?” He rounded on the human, glaring up at him, but Bard only stared at him with the same weary expression. “And what of you, hero? Will you not fight for what is yours?”  
“There is nothing left to fight for.” Bard replied, and Nori saw that he too had taken wounds in the battle, for his arms were wrapped in bloody bandages his face bore tell-tale signs of being narrowly missed by an arrowhead. “My people have suffered enough for your endeavors. We have bled and died for the dwarves of Erebor. I can ask no more of them, Nori, nor will I. I must take the survivors into the wilderness into Dunland and rebuild there. It would be wise of you and your kin to join us.”  
“Cowardly, that’s what you mean.”  
“Nori!” Balin barked, grabbing the taller dwarf’s arm roughly and shaking him a little as he leered into his sharp features. “I will not let your temper lead us to ruin! What good is gold or a kingdom to the dead?”  
“And what of Thorin?”  
Balin did not speak at first, but he looked disheartened. “I do not know. Erebor was as much my home as it ever was his, and I have lost more than he knows there. My old heart could not bear to lose much more.”  
Nori understood though it did not please him. “Thorin chose we few to come with him on this journey,” he began slowly, almost chewing his words in an effort to keep himself calm and collected. “Not because we were the best or the bravest, but we because we were the most loyal. I cannot speak for the others, but for my own part, I know I have not always been worthy of that trust. I have let him down in the past, I have put us in needless danger. I am a thief and a gambler and a drunk and a shoddy jeweler. But he still had faith in me, even when my own brother doubted. I can’t go back on that, Balin. I won’t let him down, not again.”  
Balin looked long at him, and he almost smiled, putting his hand upon the ginger-haired dwarf’s shoulder. “There is so much more to you than even you know, Nori. But Thorin would not want you to throw away your life trying to prove something to him that I’m sure he already knew.”  
“There must be something, so way out of this that we are not thinking of!”   
“His armies are great, Master Nori, and they believe we have wronged them. We do not stand a chance in battle, only diplomacy will avail us now, and I fear Dain is beyond that.” Bard answered.   
“Yes, far beyond.” Balin muttered, stroking his beard. “Oh how Thrain would have wept to see his family lain low like this. Old Thror too, in the days before the madness took him. They never would have wanted this. That we should live to see such dark and terrible days.”  
Nori drew a breath than and ran his hands along the sides of his thick mounds of hair, trying to collect his wits and restrain his hot temper. Then an idea struck him like a spark and he whirled excitedly. “T’was the gold that was old Thror’s undoing! Bless you Balin, that’s it! How simple it is, sitting there just plainly in front of our noses! Haha!”  
“What are you on about?”  
“The Arkenstone! That’s what he’s really after, the old devil, he can’t help himself. Once he has it, he’ll feel as if he’s won, as if it’s chosen him to be king and not Thorin. So all we have to do is offer it up, and he’ll forget his war and his armies. Nothing matters but the jewel.”  
“But we haven’t got the jewel!” Balin sighed in frustration.  
“The Halfling carries it, and I do not think it wise that we let Dain know that, or wherever Bilbo and Thorin are they will not be safe.” Bard nodded.  
“Ah, but you’ve forgotten again what I am best at, my friends. A little deception now and a again, could be the salvation of us all.”   
Nori looked around nervously, as was sometimes his habit, for he used to being in the business of secrecy and often unscrupulous things. He reached into his tunic, fishing a handful of something from some secret pocket sown into his clothes and produced a rather large diamond, nearly the size of the fabled Arkenstone, although it’s brilliance could not compare to the mysterious gem.  
“I took this from the horde. Relax! It is of my own share of the treasure! Perhaps we could lure Dain out with this. After all, he has never seen the stone for himself, has he? If we can make him believe we have the stone, it might give us the chance we need.”  
“It is a dangerous plan, Nori. When he sees we have tricked him, his wrath will be terrible.”  
“I have wrath of my own.” The red haired dwarf nodded with a gleam in his eyes. He looked to Bard, “What say you, Bard? Will this distraction give your people enough time to escape?”  
“Perhaps. but what of your company?”  
“This is a matter begun by Dwarves, and it will be finished by them.”

*** 

They left under the cover of the falling dark, the silent company of Dwarves and Elves with the accompaniment of the wizard. They could not risk traveling by the old road into Lake Town, knowing it would be watched by many eyes and most of them unfriendly, so they were forced to take the path of the frozen river.  
It was slow going in the cold and the dark, but the elves commanded their vessels well, and their far seeing eyes kept close watch on the shadows that stretched out at them from the shores.  
Bilbo huddled under a blanket and shivered, hating the river as he had remembered it all too well. Thorin sat close beside him and kept him sheltered from the wind and drifting snow, while he himself looked on into the darkness. “Do you think they are alright?” Bilbo whispered, afraid to raise his voice as if it might send something terrible crashing down on them. Thorin squeezed his shoulder gently, “Balin will keep them safe.”  
He looked ahead to the front of the boat, where Kili, Fili and Legolas were crouched tense and silent, looking at the boat in front of them, containing Dwalin, Bofur, Gandalf and the rest of the archers that had been sent with them. They were not many, compared to Dain’s army, but they were swift and sly; assassins of another kind. Thranduil had offered more, but both Thorin and Gandalf believed that this dispute would be settled not by armies, but by the King and his Usurper. Ultimately, it was their fate that would decide the ruler of Erebor.  
Bilbo knew this and trembled. He did not want to see Thorin go into battle again, against one or many. Would these battles, these wars and desolation never cease? Before he had left the Shire, Bilbo had thought of such things as only story and tall tales told around campfires, or as things of times past. He had discovered quite differently upon this long journey, and he began to wonder if there would ever be peace for Thorin and his people. It seemed the world was almost set against it.  
A thought came to him then, bright and sudden, and he gripped Thorin’s thick hand in his and caught his attention. “Will you come and stay with me in Hobbiton?”  
The King blinked at him, almost unsure he heard him. “Come and stay with me, in my home. Be my guest, as you once were. For a month or more perhaps? It’s so lovely in the spring time. I know you would be happy there.”  
“Bilbo…”  
“When we win back your kingdom, when all this death and war is over, promise me you’ll come. You must.”  
Thorin smiled and leaned his head close to Bilbo’s, kissing his lips, his cheek and the tip of his ear beneath his curls. “I would go and be with you anywhere, my love. You need never ask.” The Hobbit smiled and tucked his head beneath the dwarf’s chin and closed his eyes and dozed as Thorin tucked him beneath his heavy cloak. The King looked again to his family and friends and their expressions of nervousness and trepidation. For so long he had thought Erebor would bring them peace and happiness, and end their hopelessness and wandering. Perhaps it would still. But Bilbo’s offer was more tempting to him now than any gold or throne. Yet, there was work still to be done. He kissed Bilbo’s forehead and closed his own eyes for a time, resting before the final battle. Though he still prayed that he could yet reach Dain and draw him from the madness that held him; his heart knew otherwise. It was an evil fate; one that had been intended for him, yet somehow he was spared. Now, he must put an end to it forever.   
No eyes followed them as they passed, and Gandalf made sure that they remained unseen, casting some sort of spell which seemed to silence their approach and repel any living thing that may have been approaching from afar. They were far down river, reaching the rapid swell of the impending lake mouth when they saw the faint gleam of campfires through the barren trees. “We should stop here and investigate,” the wizard said, and Legolas nodded to him, taking a party of scouts with him across the shore to seek out the source of the light. Kili remained behind, but his eyes held the prince’s figure to the last and Fili gripped his shoulder in the dark to steady him.  
“What if they are goblins?” Bilbo whispered worriedly, gripping the hilt of his short sword, waiting for the flash of blue from the enchanted blade as if they were upon them now. Thorin steadied him with his hand and the Hobbit relaxed slowly.  
“They are more than a match for a few stray Goblins.” Thorin promised, for once showing confidence in Elves. Kili nodded affirmatively and looked ahead to Gandalf, who was watching the tree line in the dark as a hawk watches unsuspecting rabbits across the ground. “Do you hear it?” he whispered, bringing their attention to him. “The sound of drums in the distance? It’s very faint, but it is there. Dain is rallying his forces for another attack.”  
“Why do those idiots continue to follow him? Surely they know he is mad!” Bofur muttered, surprisingly angry then.   
“Mad men can inspire surprising loyalty through the use of fear and doubt, Master Bofur. But those who have not given over to his tyranny are looking for a new leader.” He looked to Thorin then, who met his eyes steadily. “We must give them one, and soon.”  
The Elves returned then in short order, and the party at hand was relieved that they did not seem to be in immediate danger. “It is the survivors from the village,” Legolas nodded to them as he ushered them to come ashore. “We must hurry, they have many wounded.”  
“Are our men among them?” Thorin asked.  
The Elf prince nodded, though his fair face looked a bit grim in the pale moonlight. They came to the circle of fires and were greeted by wary and bitter faces. So many tragedies stood there before them, huddled there together in the dark for warmth and shelter. Thorin felt his heart ache looking at them, Dwarf and human alike for they had all suffered so needlessly. Bard came to meet them, looking from Thorin to Gandalf. “Where were you?”  
“Detained,” Gandalf said slowly, regretfully. “But we come at last, with renewed help from Mirkwood. Tell me, Bard the Bowman, what has become of your village? We must know what enemy we face.”  
“It is they who are the enemy!” Someone shouted from the crowd, pointing to the dwarves. “You brought this upon us! It is you who have done us evil!”  
Gandalf held up a hand as if he would silence them, but Thorin waved him off. “People of Lake Town,” he spoke, his deep voice ringing in dark and silent wood, “You are right to place blame upon my shoulders. When I and my company came here, it was to reclaim our long lost homeland, and to seek vengeance for an evil visited upon us decades before your time. Neither of us considered the consequences of the matter, and instead of restoring glory and peace to the Kingdom that was entrusted to me, and taking the responsibility to bring peace among our peoples; I instead invited hatred, discord and chaos. I cannot beg for your forgiveness, for I admit I deserve none of it. But instead I offer you an oath; I will make this right. I will banish these armies from Erebor, and I will use my wealth to rebuild your city; my Kingdom will ever be at your service, as long as I and my line live.”  
The people gazed at him, hopeful but unsure, and Thorin accepted their silence with a deep bow of his head.   
“Your father could not have said it better.” Thorin looked up from the crowd then to see Balin approaching him, and the old dwarf embraced his friend and his King. “Welcome back, laddie. You’ve been sorely missed.”  
“Where are our friends? Are they among the injured?”  
Balin’s eyes fell, and his brother stepped forward worriedly, as did Bofur and the others. “Come, you must see for yourselves.”

*** 

Bilbo was bleary eyed and drowsy, but he would not stop to rest as he had been bade to several times by his friends. With Thorin, Gandalf and Bard speaking long into the night of their plans, and Nori and Balin taking part as well, the remaining dwarfs were in need of some attention of their own.   
Dwalin was comforting poor Gloin, who spoke kindly to Bilbo and thanked him for his condolences for his brother, and said how Oin had always been fond of the little hobbit and his curious ways, and that Gloin himself was very fond of him too. He gave the little hobbit six pieces of silver coin, and asked him to take it with him as remembrance, for his brother had carried the pieces for luck.  
Bilbo accepted without saying a word, and left the old banker and warrior alone to grieve in their own manner. He made his way through winding paths of campfires and bedrolls, passing weeping and forlorn looking families, huddled together in the dark. He brought them soup and bread when he could and they gave him a kind word or a nod, though they did not fully understand the Halfling or his role among them. That was fine for Bilbo, whom felt his part in their story was drawing to a close, and he was content for now to be a friendly shadow among them.  
For the moment, he came to sit beside Bofur, whom was tending to the care of his injured cousin Bifur and brother Bombur. The braided dwarf with his long bowed mustache, thanked Bilbo sweetly for bringing them all something hot to drink and warm blankets to ward off the chill beneath their thin tent, but he did not smile. All the laughter had gone from his eyes, and Bilbo saw that it was replaced by worry and fear.   
“Is it serious?” Bilbo asked cautiously, sitting beside him on the little wooden log that provided a bench next to the cot. Bofur sighed, taking off his heavy hat and dabbing at his own brow for a moment out of stress and weariness. “He’s suffered worse, as you can guess, axe blade in the head and all. Hell of it is, these wounds on his legs all look a might infected, and we’re without proper medicine.”  
Bilbo dug then in his pockets and after a moment of feverish searching, produced the last few stems and flowers of the Athelas plant that he had gathered in the ruins. “Would these help?”  
Bofur boggled at the sight of the herb and then began to laugh, bright tears in his eyes as he hugged Bilbo fast and close. “Mr. Baggins, you clever creature! Oh I knew I could count on you for anything, Bilbo, my dear friend!” He grabbed either side of the Hobbit’s face and kissed him firmly and plainly on the lips. A moment later they both reeled back, blushing faintly. “Oops, seems my enthusiasm carried me off there for a bit,” Bofur chuckled. “Don’t mention it to Thorin, eh?”  
“Of course.” Bilbo smiled and he turned to poor Bombur, who had last had begun to smile again at the hope that things may yet turn out alright. The Hobbit handed him a biscuit, dry and stale though it was, and the large dwarf nodded gratefully and chewed it as his friend cleaned the burns on his face and neck. “It’s a shame your beard was singed so,” he said gently. “But I bet that it will grow back even fuller.” This cheered him, and he went on eating with a bit more appetite.  
“When this is all over, where will you go?” Bofur asked then suddenly, bringing the hobbit’s attention back to him. “Will you stay?”  
Bilbo paused for only a moment, a twinge of guilt in his mind and then answered plainly; “No. I’m afraid that time has passed for me. I will go back to my hole and my gardens and my arm chairs by the fire.”  
“What of Thorin?”  
“I have asked him to come with me. Not forever, of course. It would be ridiculous for a King to give up the splendors and majestic halls of his forebears. But in the spring, when the world is new again, I would hope that he would come and be with me for a while. Yes, that is my wish.”  
“He loves you, you know. He would stay forever, if you but asked.”  
“I cannot ask him.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because I am only a hobbit, Bofur. And as much as I love him, and all of you, and as grateful as I am, and will be, all the days of my life for this adventure you’ve given me…I am still just that. And I belong in Bag End.” This truth he had known all along, perhaps from the very start, and to speak it now, so plainly and freely, stung his lungs like cold air and brought the sharpness of tears to his eyes. Bofur moved towards him and put an arm around him in the dark, and Bilbo held him gratefully. “My dear Mr. Baggins…if only more of us were like you, there would be no more of these bitter tears. How glad I am to have met you.”

 

***


End file.
